


Shake It Out

by IAmTellNoOne



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, F/F, F/M, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-01-25 20:12:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 34,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1661030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmTellNoOne/pseuds/IAmTellNoOne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s in the middle of carefully adding 0.30 grams of solid sodium bicarbonate to his Erlenmeyer flask when he hears a sharp exclamation of, “You’re a fucking asshole.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And I am done with my graceless heart...

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf. 
> 
> I will update again on Thursday. :) Happy reading!
> 
> Follow me on:  
> Tumblr: [IamTellNoOne](http://iam-tellnoone.tumblr.com/)  
> WordPress: [Stephanie Rhesa](http://stephanierhesa.wordpress.com/)  
> Twitter: [@StephanieITA](https://twitter.com/StephanieITA)  
> 

He’s in the middle of carefully adding 0.30 grams of solid sodium bicarbonate to his Erlenmeyer flask when he hears a sharp exclamation of, “You’re a _fucking asshole_.”

The classroom goes dead silent. Stiles almost drops the weigh paper and spatula that he has in hand because hot damn; Harris is a dick but he’s never heard anyone cuss anybody out in class before. Mr. Harris starts striding to the back of the classroom and Stiles follows his trajectory to the person the angry exclamation came from. His jaw drops slightly.

“Miss Reyes!” Harris says—looking as irritated and bewildered as the other students in the class because Erica? _Erica_ ; small, baggy-clothes wearing, frizzy hair and quiet Erica just called a dude an asshole in the middle of class.

Stiles knows Erica like he knows everyone else outside of his direct friendship circle. Meaning he knows her first name, can vaguely tell you what she looks like, and can probably point you in the semi-correct direction of where she sits in Mr. Harris’ chemistry class that they share.

He never claims to know everything about everyone, and he has enough trouble keeping himself abreast of his father’s health and the drama that his friends deal with. With that, his own research and gaming schedule? Not much room is left for gathering intel about everyone else.

So when he hears Erica snap from two lab tables behind him and to his right; he can’t help but turn to stare. He’s talked to her before—in one of those awkwardly polite ‘you dropped this’ conversations and there was that time in the fifth grade where she stood next to him for their class photos and had left school promptly afterwards.

She’s always been quiet and keeps to herself. He’s never seen her particularly angry though; she’s mostly mild-mannered from where he’s spotted her on the peripherals of his life. This is probably why the sheer rage on her face surprises him.

Her lip is curled and there is an acne scar along her jawline. Her hair is frizzy and large and seems to get bigger as her anger grows. She looks _pissed_. Stiles can’t see her eyes from here, but he can definitely see that her ire is focused on the King of Abercrombie Assholes himself: Jackson.

One thing he’s always been aware of is Jackson’s propensity for being a douchebag. It’s a talent he was born with—cultivated by years of angst, money, and parents that gave him an inferiority complex the size of Texas. He’s good looking, with great hair, and has a tendency to treat anyone he declares unimportant like trash. Most people suck it up and take it because his dad is a hotshot lawyer.

In short, Jackson is an asshole with perfectly coiffed hair. “Seriously, who has hair like that?” Stiles often complains. “It defies gravity. Like it’s full of all his dirty secrets and sculpted with the tears of all the people he sends home crying on a daily basis.”

Stiles _loathes_ Jackson—especially after the farce of a relationship that he had with Lydia. He is long over the humiliating crush he had on the strawberry blonde, because one: she’s terrifying. Two: it’s so much more fun to irritate their friends with their genius bromance and three: she’s dating Laura Hale. No one ever lets him and Lydia play on the same team during Cranium. That was banned after summer of freshman year.  Stiles is still bitter about it.

Stiles hates Jackson, but he never imagined that anyone else would ever tell the douche where he could take his bullshit. Judging by the stunned look on Jackson’s face, he wasn’t expecting it either. Stiles can’t help but laugh because Jackson looks fucking stupid when he’s taken by surprise.

“Why don’t you do us all a favor and put a match to that stupid hair of yours,” Erica says enraged, “I’m positive there’s enough hairspray in it to turn you even more flaming than you already are.”

Stiles chokes on his laughter because Erica went _in._ Jackson’s face flares red with—embarrassment or indignation; Stiles doesn’t care because this is hilarious. Why is no one recording this? The douche apparently decided to tick off the wrong person today.

“And I’m not calling you gay, because that would be a compliment.” Erica continues, “I’m calling you a worthless, flaming piece of dragon shit that thinks he’s something great because he’s got designer cologne that makes him smell of desperation and some fancy clothes that no one outside of Hollywood gives a fuck that you wear.”

“ _Miss Reyes_ ,” Harris starts, but Jackson steamrolls him.

“How dare you?” he asks—eyes narrowed and everything. He probably thinks he looks dangerous. Stiles thinks he looks constipated. “I will destroy you—“

“Is that supposed to scare me?” she snaps. Erica takes an aggressive step forward. She’s almost half a foot shorter than Jackson and he has like fifty pounds on her, but he falters back a step when she advances. “I don’t have any friends. I don’t have any fancy possessions unlike your douche-mobile. You have nothing to hurt me with and I swear to god, if you so much as look at me wrong ever again I will knock you the fuck out with whatever is close at hand.”

Erica grew some serious balls sometime between present day and the fifth grade. Stiles is thoroughly impressed.

“That’s _enough_ ,” Harris states; stepping in-between Jackson and Erica. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it ends now. Another vulgarity out of you, Miss Reyes, and I’ll send you to the principal’s office. Both of you—detention at three o’clock. Mr. Whittemore, you’ll be with Mrs. Monroe. Miss Reyes, be in my classroom.”

Erica gives Harris a stiff nod, but she returns to her lab partner. Jackson sneers in Erica’s direction, furious at being trod on by a little girl. Stiles is deeply satisfied by the events as Jackson storms back to his table.

Harris makes his way towards the front of the classroom again. Everyone turns back to the class assignment now that the drama has dispersed. Stiles is the only one to see Erica bend over to grab something from her backpack. She flips Jackson off the whole way and he scowls deeply in reply.

Stiles can’t contain his cackle. Harris stops right next to him and says, “Detention, Mr. Stilinski.”

“For what?” he demands; humor gone.

“Disrupting class,” Harris says, “and being a constant source of irritation for me.” The chemistry teacher walks away, smug. Stiles picks up his spatula.

_What an asshole._

***

“Wanna play some Call of Duty after practice today?” Scott asks as Stiles enters his locker combination. “Kira’s going to get her nails done with Allison. I don’t really understand why considering they’ll be chipped from lacrosse practice by the end of the week, but whatever.”

Stiles grabs his calculus textbook and The Great Gatsby from his locker.

“I would,” Stiles says as he stuffs his chemistry book into his backpack alongside everything else, “but Harris didn’t get enough of my glorious presence in class so he requested a visit to his lair after school.”

“Why would you be around Harris any more than you need to?” Scott asks confused and Stiles just looks at him, because Christ this is his brother.

“The reason detention is called detention is because I’m being detained,” Stiles says, “No part of that is voluntary.”

“You got detention from Harris?” Scott says, “Why? What’d you do?”

“I laughed.”

“You _laughed_?”

“Yeah,” Stiles replies, “You remember Erica Reyes? Well, she called Jackson a ‘fucking asshole’ then told him that he was a ‘flaming piece of dragon shit’ that didn’t scare her. I wish I’d had popcorn.”

Scott blinks rapidly. “But you didn’t say any of that? Why are you getting shafted?”

“I showed an inkling of human emotion and Harris decided to punish me for it,” Stiles says. He closes his locker door with his shoulder and zips up his backpack. “He’s a dementor, I swear. Show an ounce of joy and he’ll suck out your soul.”

“Harris hates you, dude,” Scott tells him as Stiles shoves his arms through the straps of his bag. “I don’t know why you keep showing _any_ emotions in his class.”

“Right,” Stiles says. He looks down and rolls his eyes when he notices that his shoe is untied. He bends down to tie it; jerking the laces aggressively as Scott steps to the side. “I’ll just stop breathing because some asshole teacher decides he hates my existence.”

“Detention tomorrow as well, Mr. Stilinski.”

 Of course, Mr. Harris is walking by right then. Because today is not a good day for Stiles; today is a shitty day and it started off so promising with Erica telling Jackson to go screw himself.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he breathes on a reflex because—

“And I’ll see you the day after that.”

Stiles shoots up from the floor as Harris walks down the hall, sipping at a cup of coffee that’s probably as dark as his soul.

“ _C’mon!_ ” Stiles exclaims.

“You can add Thursday as well,” Harris says over his shoulder. Stiles flails in the direction of the teacher and opens his mouth to say something snarky, but Scott slaps a hand over his mouth.

“Stiles,” Scott hisses, “shut up and walk away. If you get detention on Friday, Coach will have your scrawny ass running laps until you die. You’re already going to miss an hour of four practices.” 

Stiles looks at Scott in horror, because Coach makes them do an exercise rep for every minute they miss of practice. That means two-hundred and forty reps of whatever Coach feels is suitable enough for punishment. Coach made Greenburg do sixty suicides after he skipped the first hour of practice to get burritos with his stupid friends.

Greenburg’s burrito didn’t make it past the first twenty suicides.

Stiles groans and Scott drags him towards the lunch room with a sympathetic arm around his shoulders. At least Stiles got to see someone put Jackson in his place before his death.

***

“Sit,” Harris commands like Stiles is some errant dog that needs to be told what to do. He wonders if the teacher ever heard of unjust punishment and personal autonomy. “If I have to say it again Stilinski, I’ll add another detention.”

Stiles grunts and drops heavily into the seat next to Erica. Her head rests in the palm of her right hand. She uses her left hand to twirl a pencil in the air. She looks as long-suffering as he does.

He nods in her direction—not really expecting anything, but he is taken aback when she glances at him once and dismisses him completely the next second. _Rude._ He thought they could at least share their dislike of Harris, but Erica has no apparent interest in friendly commiseration.

Stiles glowers at the wall, before he pulls out his calculus book. He might as well get some homework done now. He should ask the guys if they want to come over for some rage gaming, because this sucks and he’d love to blow up some zombies.

Erica doesn’t even look at him during the whole hour. She hightails it out of the classroom as soon as Harris says, “You may go.”

Stiles leaves quickly as well, but by the time he’s in the hallway all he catches a glimpse of is her frizzy ponytail disappearing around the corner. He glances at his phone and starts sprinting, because he doesn’t want to be any later to lacrosse than he already is.

***

“I think I’m dying,” Stiles groans. His whole body aches. Coach made him do seventy jumping burpees with a push-up. Coach called it conditioning. Stiles called it torture. He didn’t even want to imagine what the man would make him do today.

“You’re not dying,” Isaac says—forever negative, sarcastic, and scarf-wearing. “You wouldn’t be so sore if you worked out with us.”

His friends are crazy. Most of his guy friends are on the lacrosse team—read: all of them are. Derek, Isaac, Boyd, and Scott go running at six in the morning. Stiles doesn’t roll out of bed until 6:45 and that’s only because he’s Boyd and Scott’s ride. If it was his decision, school wouldn’t start until eleven in the morning. Touch him before ten on the weekends and he’ll karate chop your face off. Scott learned that the hard way after their parents got married.

He’s a nightmare when he hasn’t had his Adderall or caffeine. This is probably why Allison always has a soda on hand for him even though she hates the stuff.

Allison is seriously the best.

“The only reason I will run anywhere is because something is trying to kill me or I magically get a girlfriend that I want to impress,” Stiles says. “For the first reason, I don’t know why anyone would want me dead because I’m adorable.” He ignores Isaac’s snort. “And the idea that a girl would want some of this is about as likely as me and Jackson becoming besties.”

“Your single depression annoys me,” Isaac replies as he flips open his history textbook.

“Shut up, Mr. ‘I’ve been in a committed relationship with sexy times and a hot girl since I was pre-pubescent’,” Stiles says, “You could try and feel some sympathy for the only single person in our friend group. I’ve had to deal with being the eleventh wheel for the past three years.”

 _Eleventh wheel_. Stiles has ten friends and all of them are dating each other. He’s a little bit bitter about it.

“Being single isn’t an affliction, Stiles,” Isaac says. “Your desperation is more off-putting than attractive.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything because Isaac doesn’t know what it’s like to be ignored by every female in the school because you’re too nerdy or sarcastic or not attractive enough compared to your friends. Isaac has been with Cora since they were thirteen. He’s never had to be the one in the armchair by himself during movie nights.

 Stiles doesn’t know how to tell him either.

 “Have I ever told you that your commentary is unnecessary?” Stiles asks. “It’s on par with those frilly scarves you wear in ninety degree weather.”

“Have I ever told you that the five layers of t-shirts you wear are unnecessary?”

“No,” Stiles replies, “and I’ll let you know if I ever care enough to take your opinion into account.”

“That hurts,” Isaac says, “I thought we were friends.”

“I’m friends with Cora, Laura and Derek,” Stiles responds. “You were the unfortunate tagalong that my parents fell head over parental heels for.”

“It’s not my fault that John and Melissa love me.”

“Something about you screamed desperate for affection,” Stiles says. “You know she has a soft spot for lost and pathetic.”

“Makes sense why she adores you.”

Stiles doesn’t like giving Isaac credit when his comebacks are good, but he gives his friend a nod. Isaac smirks and claps him on the back. Their friendship is built upon acerbic wit. Isaac is one of his best friends, but they’d never admit it aloud. Stiles remembers Isaac’s dad and his bruises from the fourth grade.

Stiles also remembers leaping on Isaac’s dad’s back when the man started dragging him to the car. Stiles had a terrible feeling that day and he refused to let a crying Isaac go home with him. Isaac’s dad was taken into custody for child abuse the next day because Stiles’ dad got involved. They literally had to pry Stiles off of Isaac’s dad. Their investigation revealed many horrifying things about Isaac’s home life.

Talia Hale took him in the next week. A month later, Isaac Lahey became Isaac Hale. Isaac never outwardly thanked him for that day. He did it by being overprotective. Stiles and Isaac would forever be snarky to each other, but he knew Isaac had his back. The sentiment was reciprocated.

His musings are interrupted by a loud thwack from the back of the room. The clang of desks hitting each other makes him jump and he swivels in his seat to look at the back of the room. It’s Erica again; she’s wearing a deep red baseball tee and a pair of jeans.

Her frizzy hair is trapped in a long braid down her back and her bangs fall across her right eye. She has her history book in hand, a triumphant look on her face.

Jackson is clutching his nose with both hands—blood spilling between his fingers.

“You _bitch_ ,” he snarls—vowels lisping and distorted through his bloody nose and hands.

“I warned you not to fuck with me,” she says simply. Stiles pieces together what happened; with the way Erica wipes off her book cover and the blood pouring from Jackson’s face.

“You hit me with a _textbook_!”

Stiles gapes. He nudges Isaac with his elbow. Isaac is too busy staring to nudge him back.

“I told you to back off and you didn’t listen,” she replies, “I’ve ignored you and your shitty attitude for years, but not anymore. I won’t take crap from anyone and I told you that yesterday. I only warn someone once.”

“Wait until my father hears—“

“You don’t want to go there,” she interrupts. Stiles watches in stunned silence as Erica pulls out her phone and presses play close to his ear. Whatever he hears has Jackson paling. Stiles has a sudden and mighty need to know what’s on that phone.

“Mess with me again and I will _ruin_ you,” she tells him. The teacher walks into the classroom and everything flies into chaos. Erica is sent to the principal’s office and Jackson to the nurse.

 “The hell just happened?” Isaac asks, still slack-jawed.

“I have no idea,” Stiles replies. They share a glance as the teacher corrals student attention to the front of the classroom. Stiles peers at the door Erica just walked out of, chewing on the cap of his pen thoughtfully.

Stiles has never seen Jackson look cowed before, but whatever Erica did got him good. Stiles’ curiosity has been piqued.

***

When Stiles skids into detention only seconds before three o’clock, Erica is already slumped in her seat with a blank look on her face. He didn’t expect to see her today, but slapping someone across the face with a textbook would probably equal some type of punishment.

The whole school was buzzing about it. No one knows what set Erica off—with the notable exception of both Erica and Jackson, but no one could get enough of the fact that Erica almost broke Jackson’s nose with a textbook.

Stiles ignores the unimpressed look on Harris’ face as he slides into the seat beside Erica. She acknowledges his presence with a flicker of her eyes, but focuses her attention on the textbook in front of her.

He pulls out his calculus homework again and starts working. Twenty minutes in, Harris stands from his desk; drawing Erica and Stiles’ attention away from their homework.

“I need to run down to the office before the principal’s next meeting,” Harris says. “If either of you leave or damage school property in the ten minutes that I’m gone, you’ll spend every afternoon for the rest of the semester in detention.”

Stiles grimaces. The look of distaste that crosses Erica’s face makes his lips twitch. He holds it back because Harris is evil.

They both watch in silence as he grabs a manila folder out of his desk drawer and walks from the room at a brisk pace. A moment of awkward silence passes before Stiles blurts, “So what’d you get?”

Erica looks at him; eyes wary and a blonde eyebrow high on her forehead. Her look clearly asked the unspoken question of ‘what the hell are you talking about?’

“You know,” Stiles says, “for slapping Jackson back to the Renaissance period? Talk about poetic.”

Stiles can see the flash of amusement that crosses her face, but she hides it quickly. She just stares at him, but she doesn’t say anything. It frustrates Stiles because he’s not used to being stone-walled. It’s alright; if he cracked Boyd, Allison’s brick house of a boyfriend, then he could make Erica Reyes talk to him.

“What’d he do anyway?” Stiles questions, “I’ve seen people pissed off at him because Jackson is the King of Douchebags, but you’re the first person I’ve ever seen actually bitch-slap him with a textbook.”

She still says nothing.

“It was beautiful really,” he continues, “I thought seeing Jackson shocked stupid when you called him a fucking asshole was a great moment, but no—the pinnacle of my life happened when you clocked his ass with all of the world’s greatest mistakes. I should write a sonnet or a haiku about it.”

Erica stares at him, but keeps silent.

“Just so you know, your name is going in my diary,” he tells her. “Or my manly journal as I should call it. I’m going to make a whole page dedicated to it. There will be drawings—which are gonna be terrible because I suck at drawing—and speech bubbles. You’re going down in history.”

Stiles catches the small grin on her face when she turns away from him. He talks at her for the next eight minutes about nonsensical things, but she never says anything in return.

“You’re kind of fierce,” Stiles says finally. Erica looks at him, surprise written on her face. “You came out of nowhere, you know? No one would’ve ever expected you to tell Jackson to fuck off. It’s pretty awesome that you stood up for yourself. You’re like Catwoman or something. It’s badass.”

Erica seems floored. Stiles blushes because he hadn’t meant to reveal his admiration, but talking to Erica is easy (even though she hasn’t said a word to him). He knows she’s listening.

“I guess I’m saying thanks for doing something that I never had the balls to do,” he admits. He doesn’t know her well, but he can see something relax in her shoulders. She opens her mouth to say something, but the classroom door swings open.

Harris has impeccable timing.

Erica turns away from him, but the corners of her mouth are upturned. Stiles feels like he just did something very right. Harris drags him to the front of the classroom to clean the chalkboard. Erica is instructed to wipe down all of the lab tables.

When they’re released at four o’clock, Erica packs up her bag and meets his eyes for a long moment. Stiles’ chest feels tight because her brown eyes are different than he expected. They’re deep and slightly sad.

She walks away without a word, but those few seconds of hesitation were enough for him to get the message. Stiles finds himself wanting to know a lot more about Erica Reyes.

***

Stiles lay prone on the back seat of his precious Jeep; his shoulders aching something fierce. Coach was not happy with him being late to a second practice. It was an understatement to say that Coach was pissed that Stiles had detention for two more days. He had Stiles run a circuit seventy-five times after the official end of practice. A circuit that consisted of two high knees, two jumping jacks, two squats, two sit-ups and triceps pushups. Ten of those weren’t bad but Stiles was ready to die at forty. Coach was relentless.

It took Stiles almost forty-five minutes after practice to finish. Scott and Kira had showered after practice ended. They had to sit and wait for him to be done.

Scott looked at him sympathetically when he crawled his way to the bleachers and helped him walk to the Jeep. He didn’t have enough energy to pull off his lacrosse gear. Stiles was so sore that Scott had to drive home. Kira rolled down the windows and handed Stiles her water bottle as soon as they were on the road.

Stiles didn’t open his eyes the whole time. He heard the sound of Scott kissing Kira goodbye when they dropped her off at home, but he didn’t move.

Stiles feels it when Scott turns into the driveway. He shifts into park and the sharp clink of the keys clacking together lets him know that movement is imminent.

“C’mon dude,” Scott says. “We’re home.”

“Just leave me here to die,” Stiles says.

Scott laughs. “I doubt you want to die in your lacrosse gear,” he replies, “And I’m pretty sure mom and dad would be pissed if you kicked the bucket in the Jeep. They can’t sell it after that.”

“Asshole,” Stiles mutters and Scott grins.

Scott pulls open the door and tugs Stiles from the Jeep by his shoulder pads. Scott is nice enough to grab both of their backpacks and the lacrosse duffle bags. Stiles limps into the house after Scott.

Allison steps out of the kitchen just as Stiles closes the door behind him. She raises her eyebrows—probably confused by the way Stiles looks as though he’s going to fall over.

“What happened to you guys?” she asks. “Mom got home like an hour ago and neither of you responded to her texts.”

Melissa was going to kill him. She hates it when they’re late, but she hates it more when they’re late and don’t respond to her attempts to contact them. She’s a worrier. She’s been that way since Stiles and Scott got lost in the preserve when they were ten. No one knew where they were and they didn’t get found until hours later.

Melissa made them both sleep in the room with her and Dad for a week. They both got grounded for like a month.

“Coach made Stiles do circuits because he got detention,” Scott answers. Allison frowns.

“That sucks,” she says, but she continues into the living room; her bottle of water and baggie of grapes in hand. His sister is such a health nut. She chooses fruit over cool ranch Doritos. Neither he nor Scott can understand that travesty.

Scott kicks off his shoes by the door and hands Stiles his backpack and duffle. He takes his own bag into the living room and plops down on the floor across from Allison. Stiles is in desperate need of a shower before he even thinks about the fifty calculus problems, English worksheet, two pages of chemistry problems and the short answer history assignment he still has to do.

He trudges upstairs, leaving his siblings to their homework. He may be able to dodge Melissa if he creeps quickly past the open door to his parent’s bedroom.

Stiles should know by now that he’s not a lucky person. Melissa steps into the hallway just as Stiles reaches the landing. She’s no longer in her scrubs and has on a soft cotton peach dress that he remembers buying her for mother’s day (Lydia helped extensively). Her feet are bare and her auburn curls are pinned into a bun at the top of her head.

She gives him a look over the basket of clothes she has in hand. “You’re late,” she says as he walks towards her.

“Sorry Mom,” he tells her. “I stayed late after practice.” He does not want to tell her about his detentions because she would kill him. His dad would watch in amusement and then kill him too.

She tilts her cheek in his direction—silently demanding a kiss and he obliges. Melissa shifts the basket to her hip and uses her free hand to pat his cheek.

“Your lies would work if I hadn’t already talked to your sister,” she says. Stiles’ jaw drops and he blushes.

“Al!” he shouts, “You traitor!”

“Sorry, Stiles!” she yells back—he can clearly hear the laughter in her voice. She’s not sorry at all.

“Let’s see if she gets a birthday present this year,” Stiles mutters. Melissa smacks him upside the head.

“Four detentions, Stiles?”

“Harris hates me!” he protests with an arm flail for emphasis, but he regrets it because his muscles are cold now and all he can feel is pain. “Only one of those detentions is even slightly deserved. The rest are the result of a fascist teacher who lives off of my pain.”

Melissa shakes her head at him. She’s amused but also disappointed. Stiles hates disappointing his parents. She grabs his neck and pulls his forehead close so she can plant a kiss at his hairline.

She hugs him and Stiles basks in it because he loves his mom, okay? She may not be his biological mother and she can never replace his actual mom, but she’s still his mom.

“Go shower and do your homework before dinner,” she tells him once she lets go. “If it’s done, I might be persuaded to distract your father from your four detentions.”

“Gross mom,” he says and Melissa laughs at him.

“You’re just lucky you’re cute or I’d leave you to suffer your father’s angry eyebrows on your own,” she replies. He shuts up because she has a point.

She walks off down the hall and Stiles shuffles into his room. He’d just thrown his shoulder pads to the floor when Melissa yells, “And don’t you dare leave those disgusting pads all over the floor, Stiles! You better spray them and hang them in the backyard or I’ll have you on laundry duty for a month. I won’t have my house smelling like teenage sweat and dirt ever again.”

“How did you even—“

“I’m your mother,” she answers, “I know you.”

Stiles picks up his shoulder pads and does as she says. After a steaming hot shower that eases some of the soreness out of his muscles, Stiles dresses in a pair of light gray sweatpants and one of his dad’s worn police academy long sleeve shirts.

He runs a towel through his wet hair and rolls the sleeves up to his elbows, before taking his lacrosse gear out to the back and spraying them down with a pad cleaning solution. Scott must’ve pulled his out when he was in the shower because they’re hanging up too.

Once he’s done, he goes up to his room to work on his homework. There’s almost forty-five minutes until dinner and he knows he can finish his calculus homework in that time, so he decides to pick up where he left off in detention.

He grabs his binder and flips open his textbook to the correct page. Stiles stops when a folded piece of paper sits in the crease of his book. Stiles drops his pencil to the desk and tugs the paper free.

He unfolds it and stops in surprise when he reads what’s written.

**_You talk a lot._ **

That’s all the note says, but it’s the signature that makes him smile. It’s signed Catwoman. Stiles would normally read more into the message, but Erica seems like the type of person to be fairly straightforward with what she’s feeling.

He doesn’t know her well enough to interpret subtext, but he’s going to talk to her again. Maybe he’ll learn how to read her one day. He folds the note and carefully places it underneath the frame that holds a picture of him, Allison, and Scott from the beach last summer.

Stiles goes back to his homework with a smile on his face.

***

He doesn’t see Erica in class or in detention for the next two days. He tries to ask Mr. Harris about it, but the man glares at him until he goes silent. Stiles is disappointed because he wanted to try and talk to her again. His luck is not a thing that exists apparently. When he doesn’t see her in class on Friday, he gives up.

***

Saturday morning dawns bright and early—the sounds of Scott and Allison coming back from their “late morning” run (aka they go at eight on the weekends which isn’t late at all in Stiles’ opinion) and his dad doing something that makes Allison yelp indignantly and yell, “Dad!”

He grumbles as he wakes up, because no one should be up this early on the weekend. The only reason he lumbers out of bed is because he needs to go to the library and get books for his English paper. He might as well beat the irritating junior high hipsters to the library. They love to steal all the tables and he has to combat the elderly for a booth near the back.

He rolls out of bed and slumps downstairs. Stiles ignores the way his whole family looks conscious and joyful. He sinks into a chair and makes grabby hands towards the coffee pot.

Melissa runs a hand through his bedhead and presses a kiss to his temple. Instead of coffee, she hands him the bottle of Adderall and a glass of water. Stiles pouts.

“You can have coffee after you’ve taken your meds,” she tells him and he does as she says grumpily. As soon as the pill and water is gone she plops a cup of coffee in front of him. Stiles perks up with the first sip of the sugary concoction.

Stiles watches Allison scramble eggs while his dad flips pancakes. Saturdays are the only days that Stiles lets his dad eat whole eggs instead of egg whites. His dad loves Saturdays.

Scott runs to shower. Allison follows not too long after. Melissa takes over where she left off. Stiles watches his dad press a kiss to Melissa’s cheek and she dimples at him in response.

It’s nice to see his parents love each other so much. It’s also depressing to think that at this rate, he’ll probably never experience that kind of affection before he graduates from high school. He sips at his coffee and leaves the room to angst over Saturday morning cartoons.

Once breakfast is cooked, Melissa beckons Stiles to set the table. He shuts off the TV and places his now empty mug in the sink. Scott and Allison come downstairs just as their dad places the food on the table.

They eat as a family and it’s one of Stiles’ favorite parts of the week.

“What are you doing today, kiddos?” John asks.

“Lydia, Laura, Braeden and I are going to the outlet mall sale in Augusta,” Allison says. Augusta, California is about a forty-five minute drive from Beacon Hills. “And then I’m going with Boyd to his little brother’s basketball game and we’ll probably go to dinner and a movie or something afterwards.”

“Is that mall sale why you asked me for fifty bucks this morning?” John asks and Allison peers at him innocently over her forkful of pancakes. He shakes his head, but hands over the cash. She beams at him across the table. Stiles rolls his eyes because their dad likes to pretend that Allison and Melissa don’t have him wrapped around their little fingers.

He’s prone to giving in to his sister when she looks at him like that too. Allison is like a freaking Disney princess with the dimples and the smile and the way she’s a badass but nice to everyone. The fact that she has a black belt in Tae Kwon Do and was almost an Olympic level archer just makes her more awesome.

“Why isn’t Cora going?” Melissa asks. Allison takes a sip of her milk before she answers.

“I think her and Isaac are going to a film festival thing today,” she says. Melissa nods.

“Kira and I are going hiking today,” Scott says. Melissa and John both look concerned, but Scott rolls his eyes. “I’ll bring plenty of water and my inhaler. It shouldn’t be too hard, but we’ve got all day so we can go as slowly as we need to.”

“Wear sunscreen,” Melissa adds and Scott nods.

It must be great to have significant others to hang out with all day, because Stiles has a visit to the library on his agenda and maybe some RPG time planned for the evening.

When he looks up from his plate, everyone is staring at him.

“What?”

“What are you doing today?”

“Oh,” he replies, “I’m going to the library to get some research done for my English essay.”

His dad nods and they move on. “Your mom and I have a romantic afternoon of bill payments to go through.”

Melissa laughs. “There’s nothing that gets me hot like reading past due statements.”

John grins at her and three simultaneous groans of “Gross” and “that’s disgusting” and “Please stop” echo across the table.

***

The hipsters showed up to the Beacon Hills Public library earlier than Stiles anticipated. When he arrives, all of the tables are taken, so he sighs heavily and heads towards the booths at the back—mentally preparing himself to battle the grandmas who want the tables to read their literary porn.

Stiles has dodged two tables that smell strongly of preparation H and dental cream before he rounds the corner and freezes mid-step.

There—sitting by herself with chemistry books spread around her—is Erica.

Her hair is in a wild pony tail at the back of her head. She’s wearing a dark purple t-shirt, a pair of jean shorts and gladiator sandals; her neon purple toes contrasting brightly with the dark brown leather of her shoes.

Stiles blinks because he hasn’t seen her in three days and this is the last place that he expected to run into her again. He’s torn between being awkward and saying hi to her or turning tail and running away (which is also awkward).

The choice is taken out of his hands when she lifts her head and stretches her hand out to grasp her water bottle. She catches sight of him standing there like a moron when she takes a drink from the bottle.

They stare at each other in surprise. Stiles decides to bite the bullet and he walks towards her table. She doesn’t say anything, but she does screw the cap on her bottle and set it down on the table when he comes to a stop at the edge of the table.

“Hi,” he says. For a long, uncomfortable moment, Stiles is sure that she won’t respond.

But then she says, “Hi” and Stiles is surprised for a different reason altogether. Her voice carries a slight rasp, but it definitely sounds strange (mostly because Stiles has only heard her speak when she was telling Jackson to go shit a brick). She sounds different when she isn’t angry.

Stiles likes both versions of her voice.

“Uh,” he replies, “the junior high gremlins have taken over the tables. And I swear if I smell more dental glue and Alka seltzer, I’m going to punch myself in the face. You mind if we share?”

Erica looks amused, a little wary too but Stiles can work with that.

She motions to the empty side of the table. “Go ahead,” she says, “Just promise me that you won’t talk the whole time because I’m here to study.”

He remembers the note that she wrote to him and the way it’s still sitting on his desk under the frame. He bites back a grin and nods.

“Yeah, sorry,” he says, “I tend to ramble when I’m nervous or bored; actually, talking happens to be something I’m good at.”

“Not really,” Erica says. Stiles stares at her because _what_. She looks a little unsure, but he sees the way determination enters her gaze and Stiles is captivated by it. “You talk a lot sure, but you don’t actually say anything important. Not until you don’t have any other choice.”

Stiles is the master of avoiding things. He’s a supporter of ignoring a situation until it blows up in his face or solves itself. He can talk circles around anyone. It’s something his family knows how to circumvent in minutes. His friends have learned how to see through his bullshit over the duration of several years.

“You got all of that from one conversation during which you didn’t say a single word to me?”

“You learn a lot about a person when you listen to them,” she answers, “I was listening and I don’t really think you needed me to say anything.”

Stiles had a single one-sided conversation with Erica and she already knows his primary tactic. He isn’t sure how to deal with it.

“What happened to you after Tuesday?” he asks instead. Erica eyes him for a moment, but she lets him change the topic anyway.

“I got three days of in-school suspension,” she replies.

“That sucks,” he says.

Erica shrugs, but the smile twitching at the corners of her mouth tells him everything. “It was worth it,” she says.

Stiles grins because he’s pretty sure that’s pride he sees in her expression. Their conversation fades out as Erica buries herself in Chemistry and Stiles goes off to get reference books for his English essay.

They work in a companionable silence all day. Erica catches him staring at her speculatively more than once. He always goes back to his work with a blush on his face. He isn’t oblivious to the way she peers at him over her notes sometimes, but they don’t talk for the rest of the day.

It’s quiet, but it’s nice. Erica is intimidating and intriguing, but she’s fairly easy to be around. She packs up around four and she leaves with a quiet, “See you later, Stilinski.”

“Bye Erica,” he calls after her. She pauses for a moment and looks at him over her shoulder. He waves and she waves back, before she walks out of the library.

Stiles stays for another hour, before he decides to go home and do something besides homework.

***

Stiles spent the rest of Saturday drinking chocolate milk and playing Call of Duty with his dad. When his dad had to leave for his late night shift, Melissa watched The Avengers and Captain America with him until she passed out on the couch. Stiles went to bed before Scott and Allison made it home.

His Sunday was spent in cahoots with his siblings. They annoyed Melissa while grocery shopping, played loud and violent card games, and ended the night with a Super Mario Bros tournament. Allison wiped the floor with both him and Scott. They had to suffer through last minute homework. Stiles debated between reviewing his notes and re-reading Lord of the Rings. He ended up doing both.

History class is just as boring as it’s always been, because Mrs. Johnson fails at storytelling and her lectures make him want to cry. He diligently takes notes because he’s competing with Lydia for valedictorian and he won’t let a boring teacher take him out of the game.

Fifteen minutes before class ends, Mrs. Johnson ends her lecture and claps her hands together. The loud sound wakes the sleepers in class and makes everyone pay attention.

“Now that we’ve finished our unit, it’s time for the first project of the semester!” she says, “This project is worth 15% of your grade in this class, so take it seriously…” As she speaks, Stiles scribbles down notes. What they have to do is pretty simple, but it’ll take a lot of time. They basically have to put together a fifteen minute presentation on a war or battle or catastrophe that altered government perspective.

There had to be visual, written, and speech components. They are also required to put together an annotated bibliography and submit a twelve page joint research paper.

Mrs. Johnson assigns partners. By some twist of fate, Stiles ends up with Erica. He takes the project handout he’s given and moves to sit by her at the back of the classroom.

“We got assigned the Civil War,” she says, “Want to meet after school in the library to brainstorm a plan?”

“You want to start today?” he asks.

“When you’re practically failing Chemistry, you don’t have much time to waste on a class you’re acing,” she replies. Stiles is stunned because it’s the first bit of personal information she’s really given him.

“We can meet right after school,” he says, “but I have lacrosse practice at three so we only have like half an hour.”

“Better than nothing,” she replies; pulling out her planner and scribbling something down.

“I can help you with chemistry,” he blurts, because Stiles has no filter and being an idiot in front of Erica is obviously a thing that will continue.

She looks at him. “You’re good at chemistry?”

“Harris hates me,” he says, “but I get perfect grades in his class. I get satisfaction from the thought of him forcing himself to write A+ on every assignment I turn in.”

Erica laughs and it feels like the sun decided to shine in the middle of Mrs. Johnson class. Stiles’ heart beats a little bit faster because he wants to make her laugh again and again and some more after that.

***

Stiles and Erica have met up in the library after school for the past three days. They’ve made significant headway on their project outline and Stiles just started his research during their session this afternoon.

She hasn’t revealed much about herself but Stiles has learned several things about her from their time together. She’s ambidextrous but prefers writing with her right hand. He kind of flipped when he saw her eat a sandwich with her right hand and continue on writing with her left. Her smirk said she was amused by his amazement.

He hasn’t made her laugh again yet, but Stiles is working on it. Coach let up after the hell he put Stiles through last week. Stiles has never been more grateful for the standard lacrosse practice grind. His life has been average, but pretty good lately.

Because his luck is short-lived, Stiles’ jeep decides to be a pain in the ass after Thursday’s lacrosse practice. Allison is forced to drive Scott to work at Dr. Deaton’s office because the jeep won’t start. She takes Kira and Boyd along for the ride while Stiles pops the hood of his baby and prays that he can fix it with his rudimentary knowledge of cars.

He fiddles around the engine—checking the oil and water valve, but they’re fine. He almost burns himself and manages to hit his head on the underside of the hood. Stiles pulls his phone from his jeans pocket because he has no choice but to call his dad and a tow truck.

“Stilinski?”

Stiles turns around at the sound of Erica’s voice. He almost trips over the straps of his backpack on the ground, but catches himself in time. She lets out a soft laugh and Stiles basks in it—even though it’s at the sake of his dignity.

“What are you doing?” she asks. Stiles has to admire the fact that she’s initiating conversation now, because a week ago she would’ve ignored him.

“Roscoe won’t start,” he answers as she walks closer.

“Roscoe?” she says, “You named your jeep Roscoe?”

“My first choice was Betty, but she didn’t like that,” he responds. She looks amused—her brown eyes dancing in the slowly setting sun.

“Do you know what’s wrong with it?” she asks and Stiles has to force himself not to flail because Erica is standing next to him, peering at the engine of his jeep.

“Not really,” he says, “I checked the oil and water, but she just won’t start.”

“When you turn the key is there a clicking sound?” she asks.

Stiles stares at her. “Uh, yeah, why?”

She glances at him over her shoulder, before she ties her loose hair into a low side pony tail. Erica pulls the sleeves of her jacket up before she steps closer to the car. She stops; a hesitant look on her face before she looks at Stiles.

“May I?” she asks with a motion towards his Jeep. He nods dumbly. Erica dives under the hood of his Jeep and carefully moves some wires and tightens some caps, before stepping back.

“Try it now?”

Stile blinks, but he moves to do as she says. He opens the Jeep door and sticks his hand inside to turn the key in the ignition. He gapes when the Jeep roars to life and a bright smile stretches across Erica’s face.

Stiles can’t figure out why he feels like he’s been punched in the stomach at the sight of that smile and the huff of laughter she lets out.

“How’d you—“

She slams the hood closed and tugs her backpack over her shoulder. He stares at her in amazement.

“It was either going to be the starter, alternator, or a dead battery,” she answers. “Lucky for you, your starter wire was disconnected.”

“You know cars?” he questions and _holy god is Erica blushing because her face is definitely pink??_ He hasn’t seen a sign of bashfulness from this girl since they started talking, but Stiles likes it. It makes him feel like this potential friendship isn’t just a one-sided thing.

She shrugs, but Stiles can tell that she’s not comfortable. Erica isn’t big on divulging the personal aspects about herself. It’s killing Stiles because he wants to know more.

“I work with my dad at his garage sometimes,” she says. “He started teaching me when I was younger and I guess it’s become our thing now. I spend most of my free time with either cars or comics.”

Stiles knows practically nothing about cars, but comics? That’s his lifeblood right there.

Erica looks uncertain and discomfited at Stiles’ lack of response. She starts to turn to walk away. “I should head home now, but I’ll see you later, Stilinski.”

She’s finally opening up about something and Stiles doesn’t want to lose this small window of opportunity.

“Wait!” he says and she stops mid-turn. “Uh, do you wanna get some ice cream?” he asks.

She looks shocked.

“I mean, as a thank you for fixing my jeep,” he continues, “It’s the least I could do after you saved me from the embarrassment of calling my dad to come pick me up and also the amount of money you saved me from spending on a tow truck and mechanic.”

“So you want to buy ice cream?”

“It’s sweet and delicious,” he says, “plus way cheaper than paying someone two hundred bucks to re-attach a wire.”

Erica laughs at that. “I shouldn’t stay out too late,” she says, “I want to study some more for Chemistry when I get home.”

“I can actually make good on my offer to help you,” he replies. “I have my chemistry textbook in the Jeep and ice cream makes studying way easier.”

Erica bites her lip for a moment, but she seems to make a decision because she marches towards the truck. “You’re buying, teaching me how to survive this terrible quiz tomorrow, and driving me home.”

“Demanding,” Stiles says as she climbs into the passenger side of the jeep. “I like it.”

She smiles at him and Stiles has to get his shit together before he does something terrible like crash his jeep in a nearly empty parking lot. He laughs though when she takes the liberty of turning on the radio and the first thing that comes on is a Demi Lovato song that Stiles knows all the lyrics too.

He sings with abandon just to make her laugh (and he actually does like this song, okay). Erica takes great joy in laughing when he tries to dance at the stoplight. Stiles feels like a badass because he’s made her laugh four times in the past hour and it’s totally worth all the embarrassment.

She’s nothing like he thought she was, and he finds her more than a little bit amazing.

They end up at Isla’s Ice Cream Shop. She orders plain vanilla with fudge sauce. Stiles judges her until she agrees to at least get sprinkles. He gets mint chocolate chip, espresso chip, and dark chocolate with mother fucking sprinkles on top. He coerces her into talking about herself.

He learns that she hates seafood, loves cheesy Foreigner songs, knows every song on AC/DC’s Back in Black album, and she even tells him about the canary yellow GTO that she and her father are currently restoring. Once their ice cream is gone, Erica gets him to help her study for the Chemistry quiz they have the next day.

They don’t pay attention to the time until Isla’s closes at ten and Stiles realizes that he hasn’t even checked his phone since lacrosse practice ended. When he pulls it out of his backpack, he sees thirteen missed calls from both of his parents and his siblings. There are twenty-two text messages.

“I am so dead,” he breathes and Erica looks at him as they walk to the Jeep.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“My phone is on silent,” he says, “and I have missed messages from both my parents and my brother and sister. They’re probably freaking out.” There’s no probably about it, but Erica looks concerned enough.

“I’m sorry if I got you in trouble,” she says.

“What?” he asks as he unlocks the Jeep and opens the door for her. Erica gives him a strange look, but climbs into the Jeep anyway. “You didn’t. It was my fault. I should’ve paid more attention to the time.”

He closes her door and walks around to his side. Since the phone is now in his pocket, he feels the vibration of another text coming through. He grimaces, but decides to ignore it for now. He’s going to die soon anyway.

“Where do you live?” he asks as he buckles his seatbelt.

“On Oak and Park,” she replies. “I’m in the cul-de-sac at the end of the street—4581.”

“I think I know where that is,” he says, “If I get lost, point me in the right direction.”

“Sure thing,” Erica says, before his phone lights up on the dashboard. He can see the picture of him and Melissa with their faces smashed together in the reflection on the windshield. They’re both making silly faces.

Stiles is so very dead when he gets home.

“Is that your mom?” she asks.

“No,” Stiles says and she looks confused. The contact name says ‘Mom’. “Well, yes and no.”

“What does that mean?”

“She’s not my biological mom,” he replies. Erica is quiet, but she stares at the side of his face. Stiles doesn’t want to look at her because new people all get weird when he tells this story. “My dad is my biological dad, but my birth mother died when I was eight. She had frontal-temporal dementia.”

His hands tighten on the wheel. Stiles loves his birth mom. He can still remember her sweet smile and the way she’d sing to him at night, but he doesn’t remember as much as he’d like to. It still hurts to think about losing her, but he knows that she’s better off than living the half-life of misery that her disease trapped her in.

“I’ve known Melissa since I was five—her and my birth mom were best friends,” he continues, “She was always like a second mother to me. After my birth mom died, she helped my dad take care of me and Allison. Melissa and my dad got married when Scott, Allison, and I were eleven. Melissa adopted me and Allison, and my dad adopted Scott. ”

Erica doesn’t say anything.

“She’s my mom in every way that matters,” he says and Erica nods. His life is more complicated than most people think, but every time he tries to explain—he gets pitying looks and empty platitudes.

“I think you should call your mom and tell her that you’re okay,” she tells him. She faces forward, but turns her face away sharply when someone turns onto the road with their brights on. Stiles thinks it’s a little strange the way she keeps her eyes closed, but he’s learned not to expect anything normal out of Erica.

She finds a way to surprise him every time.

“I’ll call her as soon as I drop you off,” he says. “I don’t want to drive and be scolded at the same time.”

She gives him a tight smile, but doesn’t open her eyes the whole way to her house. When he pulls up in front of her house, she blinks rapidly and says, “This was fun.”

“Yeah,” he replies, “It really was.”

She smiles at him.

“See you tomorrow after school?”

“Of course,” she says before clambering out of the truck. Stiles waits until she’s unlocked her front door before shifting out of park. She waves before walking inside her house. Stiles sends Melissa a text saying that he’ll be home in fifteen minutes, before he turns his phone off.

He drives home feeling some kind of way, but it’s definitely a positive feeling.

At least until he walks in his house and sees both of his parents waiting for him at the kitchen table. Neither looks pleased and his father’s angry eyebrows are out in full force.

“Where have you been young man?” Melissa asks. “You stay out until almost eleven o’clock on a school night. You don’t call to tell us where you are and you don’t have the courtesy to answer your phone—“

Melissa looks torn between relieved fury and exasperated worry. His dad touches her shoulder and she sucks in a breath to visibly calm herself.

“Stiles,” John says, “what’s going on? You got four detentions last week. Disappeared all day Saturday and now you scared the hell out me and Mel by not answering your phone for hours after you said you’d be home.”

Stiles feels terrible. He hadn’t meant to do any of it. He just got so caught up in the fun he was having that he lost track of time.

“I’m sorry guys,” he says—running a heavy hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to ignore your calls. My phone was on vibrate and in my backpack. I was tutoring a friend in Chemistry and I didn’t pay attention to the time.”

Stiles isn’t sure why he doesn’t mention Erica by name, but he likes their friendship. He wants to keep it to himself for a while. There’s something special and amazing about Erica. He’d like the chance to experience it for himself before it spirals out of control.

His parents lecture him about being aware of the time and keeping his phone on him before they let him go. He’s never done anything like this before so it’s not like they’d be too pissed at him for it.

Before bed that night, he hugs Melissa harder than usual. She kisses his forehead and tells him that she loves him. Stiles says it back.

***

Stiles is mid-stride towards the cafeteria when he spots Erica sitting outside by herself. She’s near the big oak tree at the edge of the fields. She’s sitting on her jacket and has a book in hand.

For a long moment, Stiles debates going to join her or going to sit at his usual table with his friends. It doesn’t take much convincing before he rushes to the vending machine buys a bag of Doritos, a soda, and two packets of Reese’s Peanut Butter cups.

Melissa and Allison would kill him, but random decisions come with consequences.

He treks out to of the school and towards Erica. She must hear his footsteps crunching across the grass because she looks up. She seems surprised when he tosses his hoodie down on the grass and plops down beside her.

Their knees brush because Stiles is the definition of ungraceful even when he’s cooperating with gravity’s pull. She looks at him, eyebrows arched.

“What?” he asks, “I can’t sit with a friend for lunch?”

“Are we friends?” she asks and Stiles freezes because he doesn’t know.

“I don’t think so,” he says, “but I’d like to be something.”

He meant to say friends. He swears that he did, but he doesn’t want to just be Erica’s friend. She seems to know that anyway, but he’ll take what he can get. There’s something there between him and Erica. He isn’t sure if it’s friendship or something more, but he’s perfectly okay with starting at friends.

“I barely know you,” she admits. Stiles isn’t surprised because Erica has always been honest. “But friends sounds like a good place to start.”

Stiles smiles and Erica smiles back. Her brown eyes glint in the sun beams that break through the trees. The shadows that streak across her face make her look more mysterious—like a puzzle that Stiles isn’t sure he will ever figure out.

He pulls out his food and Erica furrows her brow. “You said you were eating lunch.”

“Yeah,” he replies, tearing into a packet of Reese’s. “This is my lunch.”

“That’s not a lunch,” she says, flatly. “That’s dried ranch, sugar, and carbonation.”

“I’m sixteen,” he protests. “I can eat what I want.”

She digs through her paper bag and hands him half of her admittedly delicious looking sandwich. He’s not an idiot, so he takes it. Stiles even shares his candy with her. That’s friendship right there.

***

“Who renovates the library during school hours?”

Erica is not happy. They arrived at the library right after school to work on their project before Stiles has to go to lacrosse practice, but the huge sign stretched across the door says, “Closed due to renovation: repainting.”

“What kind of repainting does a library need?” she mutters. Stiles has never seen someone so upset by a closed library, but he kind of likes that she’s so weird.

“What are we supposed to do now?” she asks. She looks at Stiles, uncertainly. “We could skip today and research tomorrow, but I really wanted to make some headway—“

“Let’s just go to my house,” he says, because it’s a great idea. Scott has work today. Kira is leaving for a trip with her parents right after practice. Allison is sleeping over at the Hale’s house tonight. His parents both have double shifts today. He’ll be the only one at home until Scott gets off work at nine.

Erica stares at him. “Is that okay?” she asks. “You still have lacrosse practice, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “Could you wait for me? Practice is only like an hour and a half today. So I’ll be done by 4:30. Scott is riding his bike to work and back. I have a pretty good computer set up at home.”

“I guess we can do that,” she says. “I’ll meet you by your jeep after practice?”

“Sure,” he says. She nods before she walks off down the hall. Stiles wants to ask where she’s going, but he decides to get ready for practice a little bit early.

***

“Well, this is the McCall-Stilinski home,” Stiles says as he opens the door. Erica follows him inside and this feels strange. A girl in his house, alone, and no one knows it? Talk about weird.

Erica toes off her shoes by the front door. Stiles hangs their backpacks up on the hooks by the door. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’s home, you know.”

She nods at him. He rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, I can show you around if you’d like?”

“Sure,” she says. He leads her down the hallway. Stiles points out the kitchen, downstairs bathroom and guest room, the big office (his parents mostly use), the living room, dining room, and library (which Stiles’ friends take over during their group study session). He even shows her the garage.

 When they head upstairs, Stiles stops when he notices that Erica is distracted by the pictures on the wall. “You said Scott was adopted, right?” she asks, “What about Allison?”

“What?” Stiles teases. “You don’t see the familial resemblance?”

She laughs and he sighs a little. “Allison is adopted too. She’s actually the only one of us that isn’t directly related to anyone else in our family.”

“None of you are blood-related?” she asks.

“Blood doesn’t mean much in our family,” he says, slightly defensive. She only looks at him, unapologetic for asking such personal questions, but he knows that she doesn’t mean to offend. He can see the empathy in her eyes. Stiles isn’t comfortable talking about this; not really. Their family had taken a lot of flak for being so strange, but Stiles is proud of their family unit. He’ll protect it with everything he has. “As long as we love each other it doesn’t make much difference to me. We’re a family.”

For a long moment, Erica gazes at him. “You’re nothing like I thought you were,” she says.

“What do you mean?”

“I just,” Erica begins, but she stops to look at the picture of the five of them; his whole family smiling at the camera. Melissa had a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. Allison was laughing at Dad with his arm slung over her shoulder; Stiles and Scott were making stupid faces at the camera. “I had you pegged. We grew up in the same schools and city. I had this idea that you led the perfect life with your family and your friends, but it turns out I was wrong.”

From experience, Stiles knows how change in perspectives can alter someone’s opinion. He also knows how much of a letdown it can be. He doesn’t want to disappoint Erica, but his life has never been perfect. Right now is as close as he’s ever gotten.

“Are you okay with that?” he asks. She turns away from the picture, a smile on her lips.

“Imperfections have a way of making things interesting,” she says. “I like interesting.”

There’s some kind of admission in that statement. Stiles can feel it. He can also feel the blush spreading across his cheeks, because Erica basically implied that she likes him.

“Want a soda or something?” he asks. “There’s nothing upstairs but bedrooms and bathrooms, and a loft with a big TV.”

“Sounds good to me,” she replies before turning on her heel and walking back down the stairs. Stiles follows her down and through to the kitchen.

“We have Coke, Pepsi (because my brother is gross and won’t drink any other soda), and Dr. Pepper because that’s the only soda that should exist,” Stiles says as he opens the refrigerator. Erica stands by the counter and laughs.

“You have strong opinions on soda,” she replies.

“That’s because it’s important,” he tells her.

“I’ll take a Dr. Pepper, so I can escape your judgment.”

“Good choice,” Stiles says, smug as he hands her a soda.

“You judge my choices a lot,” she says.

“No, I don’t,” he protests, “When have I judged you?”

“At Isla’s last week?” she answers. “You said that my vanilla ice cream would put the Amish to sleep and you better put some _Rumsprinkles_ on that shit.” Her deadpan delivery has Stiles laughing.

Stiles, by some twist of fate, ends up tripping over his own feet not three seconds after opening his soda. The result: Erica’s Iron Man t-shirt ends up drenched with Dr. Pepper. She shakes her head at him.

“Oh my god,” he says, “I am so sorry! Shit—“

Erica bursts out laughing.

“It’s okay, Stilinski,” she replies and Stiles blinks at her.

Most other girls would give him that unimpressed stare, but Erica finds it funny.

“But this does require some payback,” she says. Erica retaliates by tugging at the collar of Stiles’ t-shirt and pouring half her drink down his shirt. He flinches away from the cold and jumps away from her with a yelp.

She bursts out laughing at the stunned expression on his face. Stiles can’t help but find her raucous laughter infectious. They stand there with soaking wet shirts, giggling for five minutes before they get a grip.

Stiles touches his drenched shirt-front and grimaces when he feels the stickiness. “Gross,” he says and Erica agrees. “You can clean up in my bathroom upstairs. I’ll get you one of my shirts to wear.”

She nods.  “Which is yours?”

“Mine is the second room on the left hand side,” he tells her. “Scott and I share a suite style bathroom, so you’ll see the door on the far left side of the room when you go in. I’ll be up after I mop up this mess.”

“Okay,” she says, before she walks out of the kitchen. Stiles watches as she disappears around the corner, before he starts cleaning up the spilled soda on the counter and the floor.

“Smooth Stiles,” he mutters. “Real smooth.”

It takes Stiles about ten minutes to clean up the mess, put everything away, tug off his shirts, wipe off his chest, throw his dirty shirts in the laundry and pull a clean one from the dryer. He puts on his shirt as he walks upstairs to his room, a Henley in hand.

He stops when he sees Erica standing near his DVD collection. He blushes when he realizes that she’s wearing his old (very, very old) Power Rangers t-shirt that he’d set out on his desk for Melissa to take to the hospital clothing drive that morning. She must’ve forgotten to grab it.

Erica glances at him over her shoulder. “Tommy fan, I see?” she asks. Is it hot in here or is does his face feel overly warm? Plus, Erica knows who Tommy is. Stiles shouldn’t find that knowledge hot, but he does because he’s a weirdo.

“Tommy was the shit,” he admits, “and I had a ridiculous crush on Kimberly. I regret nothing.”

Erica laughs before she runs over fingers over the spines of his precious DVD collection. Stiles has been building it for years—movies, anime, TV shows. They’re ordered alphabetically, by genre, and by year.

He can spot instantly when his sibling mess with his DVDs, especially Scott. Allison has figured out his system, but Scott always forgets something. For April Fool’s day one year, Allison rearranged his DVDs in reverse alphabetical order. It drove him nuts until he figured out what happened.

She’s an evil genius.

“This collection has me feeling some kind of way,” Erica says. “Especially this superhero section because you have all of the movies and this is relevant to my life interests.”

Stiles grins at her. “You a Marvel or DC fan?”

“I just like characters with depth and good storylines,” Erica answers. Stiles beams because that is perfection right there. He’d never been able to choose either. “Prime example,” she continues, “Batman, fantastic. Green lantern, good. Captain America, phenomenal. Aqua Man should run out of gillyweed and never resurface.”

Stiles bursts out laughing. “Oh my god,” he says, “You’re so judgmental and snarky. It’s great.”

Erica wrinkles her nose at him and he shouldn’t find that adorable, but he does. “It’s a gift.”

“You also mixed fandoms. We’re friends forever, now,” Stiles tells her and she sends him a bright smile that makes Stiles heart try to leap out of his chest. “You said you read comics?”

Erica whips around to face him. Her face is so serious that Stiles feels like he did something wrong until she says, “I fucking _love_ comics.”

He winks at her, before he walks over to his closet. When Stiles reveals his floor to ceiling book case of comic books against the center wall of his closet, Erica is by his side instantly.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” she breathes. He watches in amusement as she flails over his collection, only answering when she asks “how the fuck did you get this first edition?” and “oh my god is that—“ and  “I’ve been looking for this forever”. He laughs when she says, “I’m never leaving your closet. Call my parents and tell them I’m moving in.”

They spend over an hour rifling through his comic books. Erica showcases superior knowledge to Stiles about specific fandoms. They argue over the best Batman issue. When Stiles realizes that it’s almost 6:30, they make an executive decision to get to work.

Erica looks sad when Stiles shuts his closet door, but she runs downstairs to grab their backpacks while Stiles sets up his computer. For an hour, they focus on their project. The two debate back and forth about what they want to include in the paper and what they want in the presentation. When Erica gets hungry, Stiles heats up lasagna from last night’s dinner and grabs water and cool ranch Doritos.

Stiles cracks an obnoxious chemistry joke that has Erica choking on a bite of her lasagna. They end up searching memes online which transforms into watching funny YouTube videos as they lay stretched out on their stomachs across Stiles’ bed.

At 8:15, Erica helps Stiles clean up their mess and he drives her home. He idles in front of her driveway, and for a long moment, they look at each other. Stiles doesn’t know what to do or say, because he might have a crush on this fierce, strange girl.

She smiles at him. “That was fun,” she says finally.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, “It was.”

“See you on Monday?” she asks, “I can finish my research this weekend and we can brainstorm in the library after school.”

It’s the first time Erica asks to see him and it makes Stiles feel good inside.

“Yeah, of course.”

They stare at each other for a minute longer, before Erica grabs her backpack and opens the Jeep door. She brushes strands of frizzy hair behind her ear and smiles at him again.

“Bye Stilinski,” she says.

“Bye Catwoman.”

The way her eyes light up makes Stiles lose his breath. Erica is kind of beautiful; really, really beautiful—especially when she smiles like that.

She closes his door with a wave and walks away. He waits until she disappears inside of the house before he drives off. He finds her Iron Man t-shirt balled up on the bathroom counter. He decides to wash it and give it back to her on Monday.

Stiles throws it into the laundry basket.

***

Stiles hangs out with Erica more and more. A week passes with them working on their project every day after lacrosse practice, and he finds himself eating lunch with her every day as well.

He spends all day Saturday and Sunday at the library with Erica—writing their paper and putting together their final presentation. He learns so much about her and he finds that he wants to know more.

She’s competitive, hates when people say “irregardless” because it’s not an actual word even though they think it is (so Stiles has to say it often just to get her to punch him in the arm). She has an obsession with Gundam Wing and is determined to dress as Astrid for Halloween this year (Stiles thinks this is fucking awesome and they end up watching How to Train Your Dragon instead of working).  

He sees less and less of his friends outside of the classes they share because Stiles ends up in the library with Erica after school or at the public library after lacrosse practice. Stiles doesn’t even notice that his family is worried that he doesn’t come home until after dinner most nights.

And he definitely isn’t paying much attention to the way his friends are noticing his absence during lunch. Stiles misses their bi-weekly video game tournament on Tuesday night because he stayed at the library until closing—arguing with Erica about adding things to their presentation. That’s when his friends know something’s up.

Stiles remains oblivious. At least not until everything blows up in his face in the most embarrassing way possible.

Stiles pulls into the driveway of his house—just a little bit after eight, because Erica hadn’t felt too good and wanted to go home early. He grabs his backpack and walks inside the house.

He kicks off his shoes and drops his keys in the bowl beside the door.  Stiles shuffles into the kitchen, grabs a bag of pretzels and water, before he goes to the living room. Melissa, Allison, and Scott are sitting in a circle on the floor; a huge pile of laundry between them.

Kira is on the couch behind Scott; his back leaning against her legs as she works on homework. Lydia is curled up next to Kira; floral print dress settled around her knees and a Spanish textbook in hand. Isaac is in the corner of the room with Cora sitting across from him at the table. He can hear Isaac going over algebra equations. Math was never her strong suit. Give Cora a biology text and she’d wipe the floor with them all.

Boyd is sitting at the table with his dad—playing chess. He appears to be losing because his dad looks far too smug to be in a crunch.

It’s not unusual to see most of his friends at their house. The group spends most of their time here anyway, because they have the best TV, most games (video and board games) and movies. The Hales have the best kitchen though (Talia’s chocolate chip cookies are to die for).

Stiles plops down in an armchair and pulls out his calculus textbook. He stuffs his mouth with pretzels, before he notices the disconcerted stares he’s getting. He chews, swallows and takes a drink of water, before saying. “What?”

“Nothing,” Allison says, “It’s just—uh.”

“She’s trying to say that we’ve barely seen you in the past two weeks,” Lydia states, turning a hard stare onto Stiles that makes him uncomfortable. “So it’s a surprise that you’re here.”

Stiles furrows his brow. “I saw you guys yesterday and today in class,” he replies.

“We mean outside of class,” Allison says with a frown.

“Lacrosse practice and at home doesn’t count as outside of class?” he asks. Allison rolls her eyes at him. Lydia shakes her head. Neither of them looks happy, but Stiles doesn’t know why they’d be upset in the first place.

He decides to let it be for now and he turns to his homework. Twenty minutes passes quietly, Stiles is only slightly distracted from a difficult calculus problem when Melissa asks, “Is this yours, Al?”

Stiles is used to this conversation. With the number of girls that sleepover on the weekends, Allison and Melissa find random bits of clothing in the laundry pile all the time. He isn’t bothered by folding his friend’s bras or underwear anymore. It’s just a fact of life now.

“No Mom,” Allison says, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before.”

“Is it yours, Lydia?” Melissa asks and Stiles inwardly crows because he finally figured out what he was doing wrong. He erases his previous work and starts scribbling quickly.

“No, it’s not mine.”

“Cora,” Melissa calls, “is this yours, hon?”

“Nope,” she replies, “I don’t have anything that color.”

There is a small silence, because Cora and Lydia are the only two girls in his friend group that have slept over in the past three weeks.

“Kira?” Melissa questions—a calm, but suspicious undertone to her voice. Stiles looks up at that sound because that always meant someone’s ass was grass. Kira’s face is bright red and Scott’s eyes are huge. “Is this yours?”

Stiles can practically envision the glare that Melissa must have on her face.

“No,” Kira replies, “Red’s not exactly my best color.”

Isaac covers a laugh with his hand and Stiles looks over to see his dad staring at his wife, bemused.

“Then how did a red bra get in our laundry?” Melissa asks. “It wasn’t there the when we did laundry last weekend and wait—what’s this Iron Man shirt?”

Stiles snaps to attention at that because Erica was wearing an Iron Man shirt the last time he was here and he— _oh holy god._ Allison is holding Erica’s shirt in the air, which probably means that the red bra is Erica’s.

Stiles is torn by the realization that Erica was wearing his shirt without a bra( he’d been around her for hours how the fuck did he miss that) and the dawning horror because he hadn’t taken their laundry basket down until this weekend when it practically overflowed because he and Scott always forgot about it.

He can’t stop staring at that lacy, cherry red bra because _Erica_ was wearing _that_. That was touching her breasts and Stiles didn’t even realize how fucking hot it was to know that she wore his shirt with no bra.

He must make some kind of aborted, panicked movement in his shock because Scott asks, “Are you okay, dude?” He drops his calculator and his book nearly slides from his lap. He flails to catch them both, and he can’t stop his face from turning bright fucking red.

He probably matches the color of Erica’s bra (and that thought does nothing to help, holy god). He looks everywhere but at the shirt Allison is holding and the bra in Melissa’s outstretched hand.

“Fine,” he squeaks as he tries to readjust in his chair; he needs to look nonchalant damn it, but all he can picture is Erica in his shirt without a bra and his blush deepens. He shrugs his shoulder but he almost drops his book again. Everyone stares at him in confusion.

There is a moment of stunned silence before Scott’s jaw drops in realization as he looks between Stiles, the bra and the shirt.

 “ _Dude_ ,” he breathes and Stiles wants to punch his brother in the face when understanding dawns on Melissa’s face. Scott looks as though he regrets his reaction, because Kira claps a hand over her mouth.

Lydia’s eyebrows arch all the way up to her hairline. Allison’s goes slack-jawed. Cora stares at him. Isaac and Boyd just gape.

His dad frowns and Stiles can see the thunder cloud building behind Melissa’s expression. He is so fucking screwed.

“Stiles,” Melissa says, calm and quiet (which translates into Stiles is going to die soon). “Do you know where this came from?”

“Uh,” he answers, “No, nope. I have no idea. Al should stop buying so many clothes if she doesn’t remember what she owns.”

“Hey!” Allison protests, but Melissa stops her with a glance. He’s pretty sure that he just made the situation worse.

“Stiles,” Melissa says, “Why is a girl’s bra and t-shirt in our laundry? And how did it get there?”

Oh yeah, she’s pissed. He stares at his mom for a second and can’t find it in himself to lie again. He sucks at lying, and he’s even worse when he tries to lie to Melissa.

“It belongs to a, uh, friend of mine,” he says (though his stutter before calling Erica a friend did not help at all because Melissa looks furious and his dad is not far behind).

“How did it _detach_ from this friend of yours?” she questions, “How did it end up in my laundry? Did she leave shirtless? Why was she here? And most importantly, _what were you doing that necessitated her shirt coming off_?”

Stiles sinks into his chair at the influx of questions. Melissa stands up, snatching the shirt from Allison and putting her hands on her hips.

“We were studying and she spilled—well, I accidently spilled soda on her shirt.” Stiles answers. “She borrowed one of my shirts. I forgot that she left it on my bathroom counter and I tossed it in the laundry to give back to her, but it slipped my mind.”

“ _Your_ bathroom counter—“Melissa sputters and Stiles realizes his mistake instantly. “Why the hell was she in your bedroom, Genim? And when was this? I’ve never seen you bring a girl into this house which means I’ve never met her.”

“Weeeell…”

Stiles knows that he’s going to dig his grave if he answers that question. The whole thing sounds terrible even though he’s completely innocent.

“Stiles,” John says. And this just got even worse, because they’re both pissed and he knows that there’s no way out now.

Stiles sighs and closes his calculus book. “She came over last Friday.”

“We were all here last Friday,” Melissa answers, “I think I would’ve noticed you bringing a girl into my house when I was sitting on the couch.”

“Not this past Friday, Mom,” he says, “Last Friday—when you and dad worked doubles.”

Scott makes a choking sound from behind their mother’s legs and Allison stares at him, wide-eyed.

“You mean to tell me,” Melissa says slowly, “that you brought a girl into this house when neither your father nor I were here, your sister was at a sleepover and Scott was working until nine o’clock at night.”

“Yeah, about that—“

“You had a girl in this house, _alone_ and apparently _topless_ for almost five hours?” she demands. It sounds horribly incriminating when she says it like that.

“Her shirt was only off for like five minutes, tops,” Stiles ignores Isaac’s laughter. “She was wearing one of mine—“

“ _Stiles!_ ” Melissa just yelled at him. Oh, he is so dead.

“It sounds way worse than what actually happened,” he protests because he has to try.

“We’re going to have a talk, Genim,” Melissa says and Stiles balks.

“But—“

“Right now, Stiles,” John says and Stiles gives up because there’s no getting out of this one.

He sets his calculus book on the coffee table and shuffles towards his parents. Melissa snatches him by the earlobe and starts dragging him towards their office; already scolding him in Spanish. His dad follows. His friends don’t even pretend not to laugh at him.

***

They put Stiles on laundry duty, trash duty, and dish duty for a month.  He has to be home every day by seven o’clock. The worst part is that he had to sit through the sex talk (again but with way more detail and judging eyebrows) and his parents want to meet Erica.

He sort of hates his life.

***

If his parents were bad, it’s nothing compared to the shit his friends give him. He’s cornered by all of them before he even reaches his locker. Scott was at least nice enough to let him drive to school in peace, but brotherly love apparently ended as soon as they stepped inside the school.

Stiles looks at the smirks and curious expression on his friends’ faces before he groans.

“No,” he says, “I don’t want to deal with this right now.”

“You had a girl in your house alone and topless,” Isaac says, “You really expect us to leave this alone?”

“Who is she?” Lydia asks—blunt and straight to the heart of the question. Stiles wants to keep Erica to himself. This thing between them is blossoming but fragile. He likes the way she relaxes around him now and how they can laugh together. He knows his friends would love her, but he doesn’t even really know where they stand.

But, his friends are all good people and he’ll never grow in their friendship if he keeps her separate from the rest of his life.

“If I promise to bring her to lunch at our table, will you guys back off?” he asks.

They share looks and Stiles wants to laugh because they look ridiculous. Laura takes pity on him because she says, “Sounds good to me.” Then she proceeds to entwine her fingers with Lydia and tug her off down the hallway.

Derek shrugs at Stiles, before he tosses an arm over Braeden’s shoulders and walks her towards her locker. Allison is swept off her feet—literally—by Boyd. She dimples at him over her boyfriend’s shoulder, but Stiles looks away when they kiss.

Kira tugs Scott away by the sleeve of his hoodie and Scott fist bumps Stiles before he lets her lead him away. Isaac and Cora are walking down the hall; her tucked under his arm and pressing a kiss to the side of her head.

Stiles is left alone, and not for the first time, he wishes he had someone to walk away with like that.

***

He hunts Erica down right after his Spanish class. He finds her heading out to her regular lunch spot, but Stiles calling after her makes her stop. Erica’s hair is braided back. She wears a deep green cotton dress with long sleeves, black leggings and black chucks.

Stiles thinks she looks pretty, but she looks paler than usual and her under-eyes are bruised a soft purple. “Are you okay?” he asks, “I mean I know you weren’t feeling well yesterday, but you seem a little tired today.”

She gives him a wan smile and readjusts her backpack. “Still feeling a little under the weather,” she tells him. He feels like he’s missing something, but he doesn’t call her out on it. He knows what it’s like to want to keep some things to himself. He likes her too much not to respect her boundaries.

“Are you coming outside for lunch today?” she asks.

“Actually,” Stiles says, “I was wondering if you wanted to sit with me and my friends today?”

Erica looks surprised and a bit wary.

“I told them a little bit about you and they wanted to meet you,” he continues. She doesn’t say anything, so he keeps talking. “I wanted to introduce you, because they’re great people—a little bit annoying—but I really want us to be friends and I don’t want to keep you separate and I’ve kind of been abandoning them the past few weeks to hang out with you. Not that I regret it, but—“

“Stilinski,” she interrupts. He shuts his mouth and is relieved by the amusement he sees on her face. “I don’t mind.”

He beams and without thinking, he grabs her wrist. Erica doesn’t protest the movement as he leads her down the hall towards the cafeteria. He only lets go when he holds the door open for her. She walks inside and Stiles directs her to the table where his friends are sitting.

Allison catches sight of him first and a bright smile crosses her face, before she nudges Scott, who looks up too. Before he knows what’s happening, the whole table is staring in their direction and Stiles can practically feel the tension flowing off her.

He gives his sister a pleading look and she must get the message because she kicks Scott under the table. His yelp draws everyone’s attention away for a moment. Stiles glances over at her—unsurprised to see her brown eyes guarded again. He touches her arm lightly and she looks at him.

Stiles gives her a smile and an encouraging nod. She relaxes a little. She returns his smile and takes a deep breath when they finally reach the table.

“Guys,” Stiles says, “this is Erica.”

A chorus of “Hi”, “Hello” and “hey” goes up and Erica softens a little bit more when she waves at them all.

“I guess I’ll make introductions,” he tells her. She shuffles closer to him and he grins at her. “This is my sister Allison and my brother Scott.” They wave.

“That’s Boyd,” he says, “His real name is—“

“Don’t even, Stiles,” Boyd interrupts and Erica grins at the impish look Stiles shoots his friend.

“I’ll tell you later,” he whispers to Erica before he continues at a normal volume, “but he’s Allison’s boyfriend. That’s Kira, who’s dating Scott.”

Stiles points out the brunette at the end of the table. “That’s Laura; she’s Lydia’s girlfriend and Derek’s twin. Cora is younger by ten months. Derek is dating Braeden,” he indicates the pretty, dark-skinned girl at the edge of the table. “And Cora is with Isaac, who I think you know from history class.”

She nods at him.

“Nice to meet you all,” she says, “I’ll try not to forget your names, but I make no promises.” They sit down side-by-side at the end of the table. Erica drops her backpack to the floor and digs out her paper bag lunch.

“Yeah, what’s up with you not calling me Stiles?” he asks as he digs out his usual bag of Doritos and Reese’s peanut butter cups.

“You haven’t earned a nickname from me yet, Stilinski,” she tells him. She hands him half her sandwich without saying anything and he pushes a pack of Reese’s over to her without prompting.

“What?” he asks, “After all the joy I’ve brought to your life?”

“You’ll know when it happens,” she says, before taking a bite of her sandwich. Stiles stares at her for a second.

“And how will I know that?” he asks.

“I promise to be really obvious when I decide exactly who you are to me,” she replies. Stiles can’t take his eyes off the way her brown eyes sparkle at him. “ _Really_ obvious.”

Feeling thirsty for no explicable reason, Stiles cracks open his soda and takes a long drink as Erica is pulled into conversation with Allison and Lydia. He looks up to find Scott grinning at him and Derek with his hand over his face.

“What?”

“Nothing, bro,” is the only response he gets from his brother.

Erica ends up making everyone laugh more than once with her exceptionally dry wit. Stiles can tell that Allison likes her a lot, but he’s more concerned by how tired Erica looks. She looks really happy, but he worries a little.

He pushes it to the back of his mind when she swipes his candy and Erica gets into an argument with Isaac about football.

***

Stiles doesn’t see Erica again until they’re ensconced in English class. She sits next to him near the front of the classroom. Allison and Scott are across the walkway from them. He doesn’t pay much attention to the random dude named Josh sitting on Erica’s other side at the table, but he does notice when the teacher turns on the projector and shuts off the lights.

He notices mostly because Erica tenses immediately and he can’t figure out why. Stiles doesn’t have a chance to ask her what’s wrong before the teacher shushes him and starts her lecture.

The lecture goes on and Erica is tense, but fine. She takes notes with a shaky hand and Stiles is having trouble concentrating on his teacher’s voice. Things are fine for the first twenty minutes. It’s only when Josh’s phone, sitting out on the table between him and Erica, goes off with the signature iPhone flashing light alert that things take a dive into terrible.

It all happens so fast.

Erica lets out a sharp cry and Stiles turns his face away because the quick pulsing lights make his retinas burn.

 Erica’s hand is suddenly digging into his arm as he blinks away the shock.

“ _Turn it off right now_!” Mr. Cavanaugh yells making Josh fumble for his phone. Stiles can hear the teacher run across the room to get to the light switch.

“Stiles,” she gasps and Stiles feels her hand clench then feels a weird spasm in her palm. She jerks roughly when he whips around to face her and her whole body shakes.  The lights come on abruptly just as Erica’s body stiffens and she curls in on herself.

Stiles makes a wild grab for her as she spasms off her chair and he doesn’t know what the hell is happening but the way she jerks and twists looks painful.

“Erica!” he says, and she spasms in his arms as they both hit the floor. Stiles takes the brunt of the fall, but he holds tight as her fingers grip the fabric of his t-shirt. “What—jesus,” he stutters as he tries to hold onto her twitching limbs.

Stiles can vaguely hear the sound of Mr. Cavanaugh escorting students out into the hallway and instructing Allison to go get the nurse. Stiles looks up when Scott pulls the chairs away from him and Erica, but he looks back down at her because it feels like her shaking is getting worse.

The teacher strides over. “Turn her on her side, Stiles,” he says gently, but firm.

“What’s happening?” he asks, panicked because this is fierce, strong Erica in his arms; her body out of her control and Stiles doesn’t know what to do. He hates it.

“She’s having a seizure,” the teacher explains. “Just hold her on her side until the paramedics arrive.”

Erica’s fingers dig into his shirt and Stiles doesn’t want to let her go anyway. The nurse arrives and the paramedics show up shortly afterwards. As they set up the stretcher, Stiles brushes her hair out of her face. She peers up at him with those brown eyes—sad, full of tears, humiliation and something in him breaks.

“I’ve got you,” he says and her tears spill over. “I’ve got you.”

They roll down her cheeks with abandon and Stiles swipes them away with his thumbs. He holds her until the paramedics lift her out of his arms and strap her onto the stretcher.

Mr. Cavanaugh walks him out of the room, but Stiles feels like he’s listening through water. He can hear the teacher saying, “You did a great job, Mr. Stilinski. She’s in good hands now.”

Some part of him feels crushed inside and all he can think about is Erica—and how he couldn’t help her. He stands in the hallway and he watches as they wheel her out of the room at a fast pace.

Allison steps into his line of vision; obscuring the corner of the stretcher Erica’s lying on. Stiles meets her eyes and he finally realizes that he’s crying. She pulls him into a hug and he buries his face in her shoulder because he doesn’t know what just happened, but he knows that he never wants it to happen again.

It’s the realization that someone is important enough to him that it’ll destroy him that has Stiles clutching his sister. He’s known Erica for all of a month, and yet, seeing her hurting has him falling apart in ways that he hasn’t since his mom died.

Stiles holds onto his sister, trying to calm his panic. Allison doesn’t let him go. He can hear her telling Scott to call mom and dad, but she doesn’t loosen her grip on him. It’s the only thing that’s keeping him from barreling headfirst into a panic attack.

When he resurfaces, Stiles sees his friends in the hallway watching him with worried eyes. He only catches sight of Josh by happenstance, but a rage that Stiles has never felt before washes over him.

He’s laughing with a friend and Stiles is pissed because he gets to almost kill Erica, send her to a fucking hospital, but he’s joking around like it’s not a big deal. Stiles doesn’t say a word as he pulls away from Allison; tugging her arms from around his neck and stepping aside.

“Stiles—“

He ignores her as he stalks towards Josh; tunnel vision taking over. Stiles simply taps Josh on the shoulder. The kid turns around, smile fading and Stiles lets his fist fly. The first punch lands with a satisfying crunch and Stiles hears the gasps echo around him.

“What the fuck—“

“You think you can get away with putting Erica in the hospital—“

“ _Stiles!_ ” Allison yells as she starts running across the hall, but Josh has already launched an offensive. He tackles Stiles to the ground and it becomes a full out brawl in the middle of the hallway.

Josh is stronger, but Stiles is angrier. He gets the upper-hand soon enough, but before he can land more than two hits, he’s being hauled off the dude by Boyd and Isaac. Scott and Derek drag Josh to the other side of the hallway.

Stiles ends up in the principal’s office, an ice pack pressed to his jaw and his dad sitting next to him. The principal lets him off with a one-day suspension, because of the extenuating circumstances. John looks more worried than angry.

He doesn’t talk when John takes his keys and tells Scott to drive the Jeep home after school. He sits in angry silence the whole ride back home, because it’s easier to be angry than it is to be afraid.

***

Stiles knows that a talk is coming. Coming home late, bringing a girl home to an empty house, four detentions and now both a fight and a suspension? He’s been all over the place since school started and his dad probably has no real idea why.

He tries to go straight up to his room after they walk inside the house, but John grabs the hood of his jacket and halts him in his tracks.

“Stiles,” his dad says and Stiles refuses to face him. He’s not ready for anyone to see how he’s feeling right now. He wants to be angry, because he doesn’t want to be scared. He hates feeling helpless. “You need to put some ice on your jaw before it swells.”

His dad steers him into the kitchen and makes him sit down at the table. John is still wearing the Sheriff’s uniform, but he pulls off his jacket and tosses it on the back of the chair. He grabs an icepack from the freezer, wraps it in a damp dish towel and places it gently against the purpling bruise on Stiles’ jaw.

Stiles takes it and holds it there. His dad sighs before he sits down next to his son.

“You’ve always had a protective streak a mile wide,” his dad says, “You got that from me and your mother, but mostly Claudia. She’d tear apart an army to make sure that the people she cared about were safe. I see that fire in you on a daily basis.”

Stiles says nothing.

“I saw it when you were five and sunk your teeth in a grown man’s shoulder because you wanted to save Isaac,” John says, “I saw it again when you laid out some kid for picking on Scott about his asthma. I don’t know what caused this fight today, but you don’t usually resort to physical violence unless there’s a good reason. I want to know what it is.”

Stiles remembers the time he punched a kid because he decided playing keep away with a severe asthmatic’s inhaler was a good idea. He’d broken someone’s nose in defense of Scott, but no one ever messed with his brother again.

He doesn’t know how to tell his dad that he got into a fight with a kid that inadvertently hospitalized Erica. It was the first time he fought not knowing exactly what he was defending them against.

“Erica,” Stiles says—a suspicious burn at the back of his throat, because all he can picture is her brown eyes and the way her body lurched in his arms. “She had a seizure in class because Josh’s phone started flashing.”

His dad furrows his brows. “Erica? This is your friend? Is she epileptic?”

“I guess,” Stiles replies, “I don’t know. She never said anything to me about it.” He blinks rapidly because he doesn’t want to cry, but Stiles feels helpless and he hates feeling helpless.

“I didn’t know, dad,” he says and his father softens. “She just collapsed and there was nothing I could do—“

“Kiddo,” his dad says, “you aren’t responsible for this.”

“If I’d known, maybe I could’ve stopped it—“

“Josh didn’t know his phone was going to go off, Stiles,” John says. “You can’t be mad at him for that happening—“

“But he was _laughing_ , dad.” Stiles snaps, “He was laughing only minutes after Erica was wheeled out on a fucking stretcher—“

“Watch your language, Stiles,” his dad warns, “And Josh probably doesn’t realize that he set off her seizure. He’s allowed to live his life. You can’t blame something like this on someone else because you need a place to direct your anger.”

“Dad—“

“This was no one’s fault, Stiles.”

“Then why does it feel like it’s mine?” Stiles asks and his father puts a hand on the back of his head and pulls Stiles into his chest. He sits there for a long time—letting his father take his worry and his fear for a little while.

“What if she’s not okay?”

“She will be,” his dad says. Stiles closes his eyes when he feels his father press a kiss to the top of his head. He’s not inclined to let go anytime soon.

***

Stiles leaves his house as soon as Scott pulls the Jeep into the driveway. He drives to the flower shop and buys a bouquet of purple tulips because Erica’s favorite color is purple. He makes it to the hospital, parks, and goes inside with a handful of flowers; the other hand shoved in the pocket of his hoodie.

He approaches the nurse’s station and he knows that he’s recognized immediately. It’s a side effect of being the son of the head nurse.

“Hi Belle,” he greets as he strides to the counter.

“Hi Stiles,” she replies. He sees her eyes focus in on the gnarly bruise on his jaw, “Are you alright? Do you need me to get Melissa?”

“No,” he says quickly, because his mom doesn’t know about the fight yet and he wants to avoid that confrontation for as long as possible, “I’m fine. I’m here to visit someone. Her name’s Erica Reyes.”

Belle looks skeptical, but she points down the hall to room 117. He gives her a quiet thank you, before he walks towards the room with trepidation. He knocks lightly, but gets no response. So, he takes the liberty of cracking the door wide enough to poke his head inside.

Erica is staring at him from the bed. He stares back for a second; unsure if his presence is welcome or not.

“Come in,” she says and he opens the door far enough to slide inside and close it behind him. He treks towards the chair beside the bed and Stiles sees the moment she spots the flowers in his hand, because her brown eyes widen and then snap to his face.

“I brought you tulips,” he says and she grins at him.

“I can see that,” she replies, “They’re pretty.”

Stiles places the bouquet on the table and he sits down in the chair next to her bed. They gaze at each other for a moment, before Stiles bursts out, “You have epilepsy.”

“Yes,” Erica says, “Photosensitive epilepsy to be exact.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

“I wasn’t ready for you to know,” she answers. Blunt and honest has always been Erica’s way. “It’s not something you usually bring up during normal conversation and this is the first seizure I’ve had in almost half a year.”

“Was it the phone?”

“It was the presentation, me sitting so close to the projector, the dark room, the flashing lights and me being tired,” Erica admits. “A bunch of things contributed to it. I haven’t been taking my meds lately, so that didn’t help.”

“Why not?” he asks. “Why would you risk that?”

“Because I’ve been happy, Stiles,” she snaps. “It’s nice to feel normal. To feel like my whole day isn’t dependent on a little white pill that makes my face break out and my body feel heavy.”

Stiles is stunned.

“I just—I felt like my life was turning around. My light sensitivity has gone down but I guess I overdid it,” she says.

“I know how that feels,” Stiles tells her. She meets his eyes. “I have to take Adderall and on bad days, I have to take anxiety meds. I get it, Erica. I know that desire to feel normal; a little less crazy. I went off my meds because I thought I could handle it; I was cured. I ended up suffering from insomnia and going through Adderall withdrawals. They had to sedate me because I got so bad.”

Erica looks like she’s about to cry again.

“I look at the hell that I put my family through for doing that,” he says. “Someone had to stay with me at all times. I was hospitalized for two days because I let it get so bad. My family loves me, but I don’t think they trust me with my own wellbeing anymore. My mom watches me take my meds every morning. My dad asks me at least twice a week if I’ve taken them. Allison and Scott are overprotective to the point of suffocation sometimes. I guess that’s what happens when you have a panic attack so bad that you black out.”

Erica watches him. He can see the empathy in her eyes.

“Trust me when I say that being normal isn’t worth it,” he says. She doesn’t say anything but she reaches her hand out to him. He takes it and leans closer to her. “You scared the shit out of me today.”

“I know,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”

“Try not to do it again?”

She smiles, soft and tired but beautiful. “I’ll do my best.”

He stays there until she falls asleep and then he picks up her phone from the table. Stiles puts his number in her phone, sends himself a text message, and puts the device down. Without thinking of the consequences, Stiles brushes her bangs away from her forehead and leans down. He presses a soft kiss to the warm skin there before he stands back up again.

He leaves the room—not noticing the smile that spreads across Erica’s face.

***

Stiles stays up all night researching photosensitive epilepsy.


	2. So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf. 
> 
> Follow me on:  
> Tumblr: [IamTellNoOne](http://iam-tellnoone.tumblr.com/)  
> WordPress: [Stephanie Rhesa](http://stephanierhesa.wordpress.com/)  
> Twitter: [@StephanieITA](https://twitter.com/StephanieITA)  
> 

Being suspended isn’t all that fun.

While his dad thoroughly understood his emotional-induced violence yesterday, he didn’t let Stiles get away with it. He’s currently under house arrest; the only exception was leaving to go see Erica at the hospital yesterday. His Jeep keys have been confiscated. He’s banned from X-box live for the next week and he’s not allowed to watch any of his DVDs for the next two weeks.

That sounds like something his dad could never possibly know, but Stiles is a terrible liar and he always feels guilty when he disobeys his father. So, he’ll abide by his punishment because Stiles is the worst kind of teenager.

He’s knee deep in a homework binge when his phone signals a new text. It’s just past ten in the morning and everyone knows exactly where he is; he’s not sure why anyone would be texting him, but he rolls off his bed to grab his cellphone.

When he sees Erica’s name flashing across the screen, Stiles grins.

‘U put ur number in my phone,’ she writes. ‘why?’

‘I did,’ he sends back. ‘figured it was about time u had my number.’

‘ok.’

‘and use it,’ he writes because that small response isn’t much to work with. ‘whenever u need to or just want to talk. Anytime.’

‘I think I got it, Stilinski,’ she says.

‘well, good.’

Erica doesn’t send him anything for a while, so Stiles goes back to his homework. Its twenty minutes later when he gets another text from her.

‘sry, mom didn’t want me to look at my phone screen 4 2 long,’ she says. ‘im bored af. Entertain me.’

‘demanding even while in a hospital,’ he replies, ‘how am I supposed to entertain u?’

‘idk. Think of something,’ she answers, ‘how are u texting me during harris’ class??’

‘considering im not in school 2day,’ he says, ‘its pretty easy.’

‘y arent u in school??’ she asks, “u sick?’

‘I might’ve punched josh in the face and got a day suspension,’ he replies.

‘WHAT’ she responds.

‘his stupid phone made u seize,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t let him get away with it’

‘violence on my behalf, stilinski?’ she asks, ‘im touched but u know it wasn’t his fault.’

‘he contributed to the problem,’ he answers.

‘ur stubborn,’ she says, ‘u should apologize to him. Its not like he knew.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ he tells her. ‘how much longer are u staying in the hospital?’

‘either 2nite or early 2moro,’ she says, ‘planning to visit me again?’

‘I would,” he responds, ‘but im on lockdown. My parents were pissed about the fight and suspension.’

‘no shit lol,’ she says. ‘I cant picture u punching someone. Like I can but its hella weird.’

‘oh god,’ he replies, ‘dont tell me ur a girl who uses hella. Please no.’

‘censorship is illegal bitch,’ she writes back. It makes Stiles laugh because she is so sassy and though he’s only known her for a short while; he can spot the moments when she lets her guard fall. ‘I can n will use hella whenever I want.’

‘haha. Plus, who said I only hit him once?’

‘omg am I gonna find u on worldstar?’

‘I don’t think the skinny sheriff’s kid getting into a fight is going to be that popular.’

‘some chick burning her hair off with a curling iron shouldn’t be that popular and yet she got an interview with ellen, stilinski. ELLEN.’

‘I sense jealousy,’ he replies.

‘its fucking ELLEN,’ she says, ‘of course im jealous. Shes my queen.’

Stiles is typing out a reply when he gets, ‘sry, doc here. Brb.’

He spends the next forty-five minutes working. He finally finishes chemistry and has moved onto his English homework by the time Erica gets back to him.

‘#babyelephant,’ she sends with a picture of a small elephant throwing a temper tantrum attached. Stiles laughs and saves it as her contact photo.

‘im guessing it didn’t go well,’ he says.

‘no it was fine,’ she replies. ‘they want to keep me for the rest of the day bc theyre adjusting my meds. 2nite wont be fun but I get to bust out early 2moro AM.’

‘why the elephant then?’

‘its cute,’ she answers. ‘but this nurse brought me some whack ass food. Jello?? nah son.’

Stiles almost falls off his bed laughing. ‘don’t hate on the nurses, they do what they can.’

‘I know,’ she says, ‘they’re nice. I think ur mom was my nurse yesterday. Curly hair? Name’s Melissa??’

‘yeah,’ Stiles replies. He’s relieved that his mom was there. He trusts the other nurses of course; Stiles grew up knowing them, but there’s something comforting about knowing that his mom was the one to take care of Erica. ‘she’s the best.’

‘can you con her into bringing me some curly fries?’ she asks.

‘you’re in the HOSPITAL,’ he says, ‘maybe u should stick with the healthy food for a couple of days.’

‘I eat healthy practically every day, you Reese’s and Doritos eating hypocrite,’ she responds, ‘I want a cheeseburger, damn it.’

‘u should come over to my house 2moro,’ he writes before he can think too much about it. ‘we’re having this bbq/board games thing at my house.’

‘family thing?’

‘not really,’ he says, ‘all my friends are there and we do it like every month. My dad makes the best burgers and my mom is a homemade curly-fry goddess.’

‘what time??’

‘everyone gets here at like noon, but u can come later if u want.’

‘my mom says okay as long as I can get a ride,’ she replies a few minutes later. ‘can u pick me up?’

‘of course,’ he responds. ‘everyone usually camps out here overnight afterward. So you can sleepover if u want.’

He didn’t think about how awkward that might sound to her parents because he’s a dude asking a girl to sleepover at his house. Stiles wants to slap himself but she replies before he can smother himself with his pillow.

‘mom wants to know who will b there?’

‘me, both my parents, and everyone u met on Thursday at lunch,’ he tells her, ‘we all sleep in the loft on the floor w/sleeping bags.’

‘I dont own a sleeping bag,’ she says.

‘u can borrow one of ours.’

‘I’ll be there,’ she responds. ‘g2g. mom wants me off the phone; eyes more sensitive rn.’

‘okay,’ he says, ‘I’ll see you 2moro. Bye Erica.’

‘stiles?’

‘yeah??’

‘thank you for the flowers.’

‘ur welcome.’

‘:)’ she replies. That smiley face emoticon has Stiles on cloud-nine for rest of the day.

 He knocks out all of his homework and decides to start on his chores. By the time Melissa walks in the door, Stiles has cleaned the kitchen, vacuumed, cleaned all four bathrooms, taken out the trash, and done three loads of laundry (washed, dried, and folded).

He feels even better when he sees the happy look on his mom’s face. She hangs her purse on the hook and drops her keys into the basket on the table.

“Wow,” she says, “I wasn’t expecting to come home to such a clean house.” Stiles peers at her from his position on the living room floor—neatly stacked piles of clothes are around him and Pandora radio plays softly from the speakers.

“I got bored,” he replies and she smiles at him.

She steps into the room and kneels down onto the floor beside him. She presses a kiss to the top of his head from her vantage point and Stiles sags against her. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and he closes his eyes—listening to the faint sound of her heartbeat.

Melissa runs the fingers of her right hand through his hair and he squeezes her left forearm for a brief moment before letting his hand fall back to the unfolded t-shirt in his lap.

“How’re those bruises feeling?” she asks and Stiles sits up to look at her because he knows that she’ll want to see it.

The bruising is a dark, ugly purplish blue color and it throbs like crazy. Stiles has done everything possible to avoid extreme facial expressions. Black eyes and bruised jaws are not fun.

“Tender,” he admits. “I took some pain relievers earlier.” Melissa shifts back and sits down on her haunches. She uses her hand to turn his face to the side and she touches the area around each bruise with gentle fingers.

“How many?”

“Three,” he replies.

“Have you iced?” she asks and Stiles grimaces because no, he hadn’t. Sitting with a cold pack on his face was never really appealing. Melissa seems to interpret the scrunching of his face correctly, because she shakes her head. “You need to ice to keep it from swelling. It’s extra puffy right now.”

Stiles makes a face, and regrets it immediately because it aggravates his bruises. She laughs, before kissing his cheek.

“Get your ass into the kitchen and put some ice on your face.”

“Mom—“

“Stiles,” she says as she stands up.

“I don’t—“

“I find it finny that you think this is up for debate.” He’s getting a full blast of the mom glare now and Stiles is wary of pissing her off more—lest he be banned from the barbeque the next day. “Ice. Face. Now.”

Stiles gets up and goes to get the ice. She follows him into the kitchen; grabbing a bag of pretzels from the pantry.

“Can you pass me the hummus?” she asks and Stiles shifts the ice pack to his left hand and opens the fridge with his right. They shuffle around each other as Melissa grabs a saucer from the cabinet and Stiles dampens a clean dish rag to wrap around the ice pack.

He presses it to the side of his face; cringing at the cold. His mom eats her snack without an ounce of sympathy.

“I invited Erica over for the barbeque tomorrow,” he says. She freezes—pretzel halfway to her mouth. “She accepted.”

“Is she up for that?” Melissa asks with a frown. “I didn’t get to see her again because I had a different patient roster today, but I talked to Dani and she said that they’re trading out her meds. There’s usually some side-effects with dosage changes.”

Stiles shrugs, because he doesn’t want to admit that he’d done his research on it already.

“She seemed fine when she texted me earlier,” he replies, “And she got permission from her mom to come and stay over.”

“As long as it’s okay with her parents,” Melissa says.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask her if she will watch out for Erica with him. He plans to be extra vigilant, but it would be nice to know that his mom would be looking out for her as well.

Stiles bites the side of his lip that isn’t busted and opens his mouth to say something. Melissa glances at him and she gives him a soft smile.

 “I’ll keep an eye on her while she’s here,” Melissa tells him, nonchalant. “Just in case. No kids in my house will go without some overprotective love.”

Stiles breathes out a relieved sigh because his mom is the best. She winks at him as she grabs her plate and a banana from the fruit bowl.

“Why don’t you go lay down for a bit?” she asks. “Ice your face for the next fifteen minutes; take it off and then ice again for another fifteen. I’ll make Scott finish up the laundry.”

“Okay,” he replies. Melissa walks past him and towards the living room. Stiles takes the stairs quickly—careful not to trip or fall anywhere.

***

Icing has made his poor, bruised face numb to the touch. Stiles is relieved to be free of the persistent throbbing, even if the reprieve only lasts for a little while. He vows to never fight again. He lay prone on his bed. The undamaged side of his face pressed into his pillow as he stares blankly at the wall.

There are no more chores to do; unless he wants to mow the lawn, which no (absolutely not). He’s a terror with a pair of scissors much less a motorized set of blades. Allison does the mowing because Stiles has trouble walking on a good day (and he’s terrible at it; he always misses a random patch of grass) and Scott’s asthma acts up every time (there was the terrible lawnmower asthma attack of seventh grade and his brother has been banned ever since).

Stiles is mid-debate about actually exercising when his door opens. The sound of quick feather light footsteps reaches his ears just before a person lands on his back—knocking the breath out of his lungs with a whoosh.

From the soft scent of honeysuckle, he knows that it’s his sister. Allison sprawls over him and tucks her face right by Stiles’—her chin on his shoulder.

“You made my bed,” she says, snuggling into his back. Stiles lifts his shoulders and Allison tucks her cold hands into the folded edge of his comforter. He makes no attempt to dislodge her.

Allison is persistent that way. They used to fall asleep like this as children. Whoever needed the most support was always the one buried under their combined tangle of limbs. When Allison first came to live with Stiles, his dad, and his birth mother, Stiles slept near her and they always ended up with him slung across her back in a protective cuddle; his cheek pressed against hers. It was as though Stiles wanted to guard Allison from everything that hurt her, but he couldn’t save her from life or her parents’ death.

On the worst nights, she’d bury her face in his chest and he’d wake up with a shirt damp from tears she cried in her sleep. When his mother died (Allison lost a second mother), he was the one under the pile. She’d hold him through nightmares and Allison had been the only grounding point for his panic attacks. Scott was a close second, but Allison was his weak point. He’d go to hell and high water for her.

She knew things about his thoughts that Scott didn’t. Not because he didn’t trust him, but because Scott would lose his shit if he knew how often Stiles used to think about suicide and guilt. Stiles would never be let out of his sight. Scott was protective enough already.

The fact the she’s on his back now tells him just how much he’d worried her yesterday. He hadn’t been that close to a panic attack in a long time and he winces when he remembers how he’d pretty much ignored everyone at dinner the other night.

“You even did that fancy diagonal thing I like with my sheets,” she continues. “How bad are you?”

Stiles does not enjoy cleaning. He does it to make his parents happy, someone is coming over, or he has too much energy to contain. When he cleans voluntarily, his family goes on high alert. He cleaned for hours during his last trial run with insomnia and Adderall withdrawal. To his sister, doing extra chores is probably a warning sign.

“Not bad,” he says, “but I stayed up all night researching. I may have taken way too much Adderall today.”

Research binges are his thing. His brain is wired in weird ways and he can get lost in the depths of Wikipedia and google scholar in seconds. Stiles knows way too much about the strangest things. Staying up all night researching isn’t atypical, but Allison doesn’t know much about Erica (beyond her incident in class and lunch). She has no idea that Erica has epilepsy and she definitely is unaware of the confusing tangle of emotions that Stiles is having about her.

“One,” Allison begins, “Mom’s gonna notice when you run out of Adderall faster than usual and you’re going to be in some deep shit.” Stiles winces because that’s an understatement. “And two, you cleaned my bathroom, Stiles. I know you’re worse than an extra tablet of Adderall.”

“I haven’t had anything to get rid of the excess energy,” he admits. “I had to do something.” She tenses and Stiles hates himself a little bit more for being a source of worry for her. She peers at the side of his face.

“You bruise like a peach,” she tells him, “Fighting was a stupid idea.”

“I know,” he says. “Erica told me off last night for taking it out on Josh.” He feels the soft press of her fingers against the edge of his bruises (she uses the same clinical, but caring touch that Melissa does; it’s obvious where she learned it). Scott and Stiles get themselves into trouble often enough for Allison to be well practiced at basic first aid.

Stiles winces—the numbness provided by the ice is dissipating and he can feel the tenderness seeping back into his skin. She must feel it because Allison says, “Sorry” and pulls her fingers away.

She kisses his cheek before laying her head back down on his shoulder. Stiles closes his eyes because his sister is—if anything—a calming presence for him. Safe and understanding fit her disposition perfectly. Stiles can’t hide from Allison. She knows him too well, but she lets him pretend he can when he needs to.

“What does she have?”

“PSE,” he replies. “It’s photosensitive epilepsy. She’s had it her whole life, I think.” He remembers the way Erica abruptly left school after school pictures—or how she was hardly ever in the school yearbook. He hasn’t asked, but he’s pretty sure.

“Was it Josh’s phone?” Allison asks. “Is that why you went berserk?”

“She hasn’t been taking her meds for about a month,” he says—not wanting to answer her second question because Stiles isn’t ready to confront the implications of his behavior just yet. There’s an awkward pause because Allison is clearly waiting for more, but Stiles can’t give it to her (not yet).

“She just stopped?”

“As far as I know,” he says, “that’s what happened. I think she just wanted to feel normal again.”

Allison’s fingers tighten against the fabric of his t-shirt and Stiles recognizes the involuntary action. He feels it when she sucks in a deep breath; only to let it out slowly.

Misuse of drugs will always be a sore spot for her; first, because of her birth mother, Victoria and secondly because of Stiles. He will never forgive himself for making Allison watch him fall apart. He can never express how terrible he feels about choosing her as an anchor through the recovery process either. How can someone make amends for hallucinations, panic attacks, and being hospitalized?

“She was fine for a while,” he says, “but with the dark room, projector, Josh’s phone, and how tired she was? It was too much stimulation in an environment where she wasn’t prepared. She told me to my face that it was mostly on her.”

He feels her fingers tighten on his shirt. Allison is uneasy and he can’t stand it because he’s contributed to her anxiety.

“She’s okay, Al,” Stiles says. “I’m okay. Last night—hell yesterday—was a stressful and overwhelming experience. I got caught up, but I’m fine now.”

For a long time, Allison says nothing and Stiles lets the silence sit between them because she calls the shots here.

“Don’t do it again,” she tells him. They both know that his failure is inevitable. Stiles’ brain takes him on whirlwinds sometimes, and he doesn’t often have the chance to think of the damage he’s doing to the people around him who worry. He always tries.  She’ll spend the next week checking his pills, watching him throughout the day, and there’s a good chance that Allison will end up sleeping in his bed just to make sure he’s okay at some point.

She’ll probably hover around their parents and be extra clingy to them all. Allison is a survivor but she carries battle scars too—anxiety is one of them.  Stiles will try to keep his word because she’s his sister, his best friend. He hates letting her down.

“C’mon,” she says, “let’s go do something.” Allison rolls off his back in a smooth motion that Stiles resents because he can’t even get out of bed that gracefully.

“Like what?” he asks.

“Biking?”

“House arrest, remember?” he replies, “One of dad’s deputies would see me and tattle to the 5-0. I have no desire to be held captive for the rest of the weekend.”

Allison scuttles around the side of the bed and tugs on his arm to get him standing.

“We can run lacrosse drills?”

“We could,” he says, “but you suck ass at lacrosse.”

Her eyes narrow. “I could shoot some bolts at you,” she smirks, “and you can run around like a douchebag.”

“That’s torture.”

“Sounds pretty fun to me.”

“No.”

“We can call it honing your reflexes—“

“Brat,” he says. Stiles pokes her in the side; making her squeal and jump away from him, laughing.

“Butt-face!” She sticks her tongue out him and Stiles wraps an arm around her shoulders.

“Wanna play baseball?” she asks.

“Fine,” he replies, “Just don’t try to take my hand off again. I need that for other things.”

“ _Gross_!” Allison elbows him in the side and takes off down the hallway—exclaiming loudly about how disgusting he is.

“You do it too!” he yells and gives chase after her.

***

Full of restless energy, Stiles wakes up around seven in the morning. He’s amused to see the text from Erica that says, ‘do u hear that? It’s the sound of impending FREEDOM. #ididmytime.’

He laughs. ‘should I keep an eye out for wanted posters?’

‘im being released,’ she writes. ‘the nurses here are too aware for me to break out. Even in my animagus form’

‘hahaha, are u getting out now?’

‘not yet. The doc is coming at 8. 20 mins of a check up, 20 more minutes of a lecture, and then a shit ton of paperwork. I guesstimate that ill be out by 9:30.’

‘I can pick u up early if u don’t wanna sit at home.’

‘god no,’ she says, ‘I smell like hospital and sanitizer. I wanna shower and let my mom cook for me before I see a bunch of ppl.’

‘haha, ok. I’ll be at ur house at 11:45?’

‘perfect.’

More awake than he’s ever been at this hour on a Saturday morning, Stiles rolls out of bed. He tugs off his pajama pants and slips on a pair of dark blue gym shorts. He rubs on deodorant, puts on socks, tennis shoes, and leaves the gray tee he slept in on.

Stiles takes his time washing his face and brushing his teeth. His hair is a mess, so he brushes his fingers through it a couple of times and calls it good. When he walks downstairs, his parents look shocked to see him.

He’s not usually conscious at this hour—and certainly not willingly. Scott and Allison aren’t even up for their run yet. Stiles takes his Adderall and chugs a glass of water as his parents trade looks.

“You alright, kiddo?” John asks and Stiles steals one of Allison’s grape bags, pours himself a glass of orange juice, and sits down at the table.

“I’m fine,” he says.

Melissa sips on her cup of tea as she curls up against his dad. “You’re never up this early,” she replies, “I’m surprised you’re coherent.”

“I didn’t work off my excess energy in lacrosse yesterday,” he says, “Al and I played baseball, but I’m surprised I even got to sleep last night. I still feel wired.”

And it’s true. Stiles is used to the exhaustion of lacrosse practice bringing his energy levels down. Besides liking the sport, the fact that it made him tired helped a lot with his insomnia and gave him something physical to focus on.

“Feel like helping me with some prep work?” John asks, “I’ve got to set up the grill and the pool needs to be cleaned.”

“Is Al mowing?”

“Yeah, she should be down soon,” John replies, “If we finish up quickly, you guys could probably run off and do something before everyone starts showing up.”

“Sounds good to me.”

***

Stiles walks to the front door of Erica’s house; one hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans and the other fiddling with the hem of his dark blue plaid shirt. He trips on the top step of the porch, but catches himself against the white post. He shuffles to the door, steeling himself before knocking three times against the stained pine door.

He isn’t prepared for the door to swing open almost immediately. Erica stands there, a bright red bag tossed over her shoulder, frizzy golden hair surrounding her head and a slight smile on her face.

Stiles feels as though he’s been punched.

“Finally,” Erica breathes. “I’ve been waiting forever!” Her excitement shouldn’t be cute, but Stiles kind of loves it. He glances down at his phone, because he knows that it’s just past noon so he hadn’t been too late.

“Sorry,” he tells her, “I got swept into McCall-Stilinski shenanigans and we ended up getting back to the house later than we intended.”

“What does that even mean?” she asks, shooing Stiles from the door. He moves backward and Erica steps over the threshold. “Your whole family?”

“No,” he replies, “just me, Al, and Scotty. We went running this morning.” Erica’s eyebrows shoot up. “I should say they ran and I spent most of the time hyperventilating.”

She laughs and Stiles grins. Erica moves to close the door, but a hand on the panel stops her. Stiles follows the hand to the stern face of the man behind the door.

“ _Dad_ ,” she groans. Stiles sees the way her father folds his arms and decides that he’d rather not get in trouble for something he didn’t do (lord knows he’s been in enough trouble for the past two weeks).

“No goodbye?” the man asks and Erica scrunches her nose before she steps into his chest to hug him.

“Call us if you need anything.”

“I will,” she replies. Her father lets her escape from the embrace, but not before he kisses her hair line. Erica blushes and Stiles blushes because he thinks she’s cute when she’s blushing (and he needs to look away because this is so embarrassing).

“Dad, this is Stiles Stilinski—the Sheriff and Nurse McCall’s kid,” she says—motioning in Stiles’ direction. He swallows his trepidation and shakes her father’s hand.  Her father studies the bruising on his face and Stiles already knows that it’s a strike against him. The downturn at the corners of his mouth tells Stiles everything he needs to know.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Reyes.”

“Call me Tom,” he answers (even though Stiles never will because his parents would kill him). “I’ve heard quite a lot about you too—“

“ _And_ that’s our cue to leave,” Erica interrupts loudly; clapping her hands together twice. “Love you daddy, bye! C’mon Stilinski.”

Stiles barely has time to press his parents’ contact information into Mr. Reyes’ hand before Erica drags him towards the jeep by his sleeve.

He opens the door for her—taking her bag from her shoulder to throw it in the back. She gives him a weird look as he waits for her to step inside the Jeep, but she doesn’t say anything. He closes the door behind her and walks to the other side.

Stiles rolls down the windows because it’s a nice day out today and Erica waits until they’ve pulled from curb to say, “You look terrible.”

He laughs. “Wow, thanks for the ego boost.”

“Sorry, but your face— _Jesus,_ I didn’t think you got into a full-fledged fight. It wasn’t that bad on Thursday.”

“I know,” he replies; taking a left turn at the stop sign. “Bruising always looks worse after a couple of days. It’s pretty dark right now, but it’ll start fading soon enough.”

“I hope so,” she says. “I’m surprised my dad even let me get into the car with you. You look like you’ve taken a beating.”

“I noticed that he seemed to be a little wary,” he replies, dryly.

“Yeahhhh,” she answers—sounding sheepish. “He wasn’t exactly in favor of me staying over at a boy’s house; even if it was with the county Sheriff and like twelve other people.”

“How’d you get them to agree if they were so against it?”

“Your mom being the head nurse was a big plus,” she replies, “but mostly because I told them I would go with or without their permission.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Maybe a little bit,” she says, “but I laugh in the face of danger.” Her deadpan expression makes Stiles cackle. She laughs along with him.

“How are you feeling?” he asks because yes, it’s awkward but he cares and he wants her to be okay.

Erica’s smile dims a little, but she says, “I’m good. Last night was rough on the system with the dosage changes, but if I don’t feel well I’ll just go sit in a dark corner somewhere to nap.”

“That’s good. I’m glad,” he replies. He drives in awkward silence for a few minutes and Stiles feels like an asshole for ruining her good mood. Erica lets out a gusty sigh, before she turns her body towards him.

“I’m okay,” she says—voice soft. He glances over at her when they reach a stoplight and a small part of his anxiety calms when he sees the sincerity in her eyes. “I’m kind of happy that you know.”

Stiles can’t quite contain his incredulity and Erica huffs. “I’m not happy that you found out by me having a fucking seizure, Stilinski. That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m just happy that I didn’t have to sit you down and try to make you understand the disease I have.”

She fiddles with the hem of her t-shirt. “It’s also nice to know that you’re still here even after I collapsed,” she says. “Most people run away when I tell them about my epilepsy. It kind of hurts to be left alone mid-seizure because someone was too freaked out to help me.”

Stiles stares at her, aghast. She can’t possibly be implying what he thinks she is. Nobody would leave a seizing person on their own because they were scared. Stiles feels sick and he doesn’t even know the story.

“You stayed,” she says as they pull up to another red light.

“I did,” he answers, because Stiles never planned on leaving in the first place. There’s so much that needs to be said between them, but for now, Stiles is content to follow Erica’s lead.

So, he lets the moment die and she tells him all about the arduous check out process she went through at the hospital. (“Oh my god, they tried to feed me breakfast and it was _horrible_ —”)

***

“—I made him help me do wheelies in the wheelchair while I blasted Highway to Hell on my phone,” she says, laughing. “My mom was so embarrassed, but daddy was singing it with me. I hate being wheeled out of the hospital.”

Stiles laughs along with her as they turn onto his street. Erica spent the last five minutes telling him about her and her dad’s adventurous ways to exit the hospital. He’s never heard her talk so much, but he feels like he earned her trust (and even her friendship). He doesn’t want it to end.

His driveway has a ton of cars parked around it. Allison’s Nissan is in the driveway parked in front of Melissa’s Honda. Scott’s bike is perched near the walkway; in front of Stiles’ parking spot. His dad’s cruiser is in the driveway—where it always is on the weekends he doesn’t work.

Lydia’s car is parked along the edge of the grass and he can see the Hale family SUV a few paces down the street. The Boyd’s Range Rover is on the other side of the street. Derek and Laura’s shiny black Camaro is sitting pretty behind them.

Erica gets a quiet as Stiles turns into his driveway and shifts the car into park. He glances over at her as he turns the engine off. “Ready to go inside?”

She looks nervous and he can’t really blame her. Erica agreed to go into a house where she knows about half of the people there, but is only well acquainted with one—him. She knows Melissa, but only in a nurse to patient capacity. It’s got to be a little intimidating.

“Kinda,” she answers, “but not really.” Her voice is softer and Stiles kind of hates it because she sounds like the old Erica—the one that allowed her to be invisible for years, before he saw her.

“Don’t worry,” he says. Steeling himself, he reaches over the armrest to touch her hand. She stares at their connected fingers for a moment, before giving him a small smile. “Everyone’s nice, I swear. Well, my friends can be a great big bag of dicks to me, but you’re pretty and they already like you, so they’ll be kind.”

He gives her a teasing grin. He wonders why Erica is staring at him, blushing and bemused, but he lets it go because they do need to get inside.

“C’mon,” he says, letting her hand go with a squeeze, before opening his door. Erica sits for a moment, but she clambers out of the Jeep as Stiles grabs her bag from the backseat. He slams the door closed and joins Erica by the grill of his Jeep.

Stiles ushers her to the front door and walks inside. She follows him in as he drops his keys in the bowl by the front door. The cacophony of raucous laughter coming from the kitchen lets him know exactly where his parents are.

“I’ll introduce you and then we can throw your stuff in the loft upstairs,” he says. Erica falters for a moment, but she nods. He still has her bag over his shoulder as he walks down the entry way to the opening to the kitchen.

Melissa spots them just as Erica comes to a stop next to him. “Stiles, you’re back,” she says coming forward to embrace him, but her grin is directed at Erica, “Hi sweetheart!”

Erica looks taken aback when his mom hugs her. She stares at him over Melissa’s shoulder, but hugs her back reflexively. Stiles wants to laugh, but he contains himself to save Erica from further embarrassment.

“How are you feeling?” she asks Erica and the blonde girl blinks.

“I’m good,” Erica replies. “I think the nurses were ready to toss me out anyway. I create havoc whenever I’m prone in a hospital bed.”

Melissa laughs. “Well, I’m Melissa, Stiles’ mom. It’s nice to meet you in an unofficial capacity.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Erica says with a smile. Stiles loves his mom because while this is certainly awkward; it’s definitely less awkward than it could’ve been.

“Erica,” Stiles says—making both of them look at him. His mom steps to the side. “This is my dad, the Sheriff.”

“Call me John,” his dad says, moving forward to shake her hand.

“Nice to meet you sir,” Erica replies and Stiles wants to laugh because she looks intimidated, but his dad is usually a giant teddy bear (read: usually because when people piss him off he becomes a terrifying bear).

“We’ve heard a lot about you--,” John tells her and Erica winces.

“Why do parents always use that phrase, I swear—,”she mutters causing John to look surprised and Stiles to laugh. She blushes when she realizes that he heard her, but she doesn’t apologize.

“I had nothing to do with Stiles becoming a delinquent,” she tells him instead.

“Hey!” Stiles protests.

“What?” Erica asks, “If you did something incriminating, I’m not taking the fall for it.”

John laughs at the stunned look on Stiles’ face and Erica smirks. “I like you,” John says, “You keep making my kid speechless and we’ll have to bring you around more often.”

“Rude,” Stiles grumbles, but he fights to keep the amused grin off his face when he sees that Erica’s got his dad hooked already. Erica grins at him when he shakes his head. “Anyways, the couples over there are Evan and Talia Hale—they’re Derek, Laura, Cora, and Isaac’s parents.”

Talia and Evan both shake Erica’s outstretched hand—exchanging kind greetings. Stiles points Erica towards the other side of the kitchen. “That’s Keran and Samantha Boyd—well, Boyd’s parents. He has four other siblings that are probably causing mayhem at the Martins’ house. Lydia’s mom loves watching the kiddos, because she’s terrible at board games. So they stay there whenever we have one of these huge gatherings.”

They exchange low-murmured greetings as Stiles explains, but once she’s met everyone—she fidgets with the hem of her shirt again.

“Do you want anything to drink?” Stiles asks. Erica shakes her head and brushes errant strands of hair behind her ear. “Alright,” he says, reaching out to grab her shoulder. “Why don’t we take your stuff upstairs and then we’ll go pester the young’uns?”

Erica gives him a look. “Who talks like that?” she asks as he leads her out of the kitchen.

He escorts her up the stairs and he hears a low level of laughter break out in the kitchen. He doesn’t know what was said, but he can guess.

***

Stiles claps his hands together as Erica writes her name on the index card he gave her. “The tournament works like this,” he says, “There are three rounds; each one themed differently—board games, trivia games, and card games. Each round has four games within each. You’re paired as a couple and as an individual. So, each person gets points per games. Five for first place, three for second and one point for third.”

Erica listens carefully as he explains. Nodding when he mentions that there will be a round winner and an overall champion. Isaac and Cora are the reigning couple champions, but Boyd has the title for individual champion.

“You’re my partner?” she asks and Stiles nods. “Then stop talking and let’s go kick some ass.”

Stiles laughs, but follows her determined stride to the patio. His friends greet Erica enthusiastically (and with plenty of wiggled eyebrows in Stiles’ direction that exasperate him) and she seems to be both wary and appreciative of the attention.

Allison hugs her and Scott asks her if she’s okay. She responds well to both—even gracing Allison with a bright smile that isn’t even directed at Stiles, but it makes his heart do stupid fluttery things.

“What’s the first game?” Erica asks as they settle around the wooden patio table.

“Monopoly,” Lydia answers. Erica’s shark-like grin should be terrifying but Stiles basks in it.

***

“Pay up bitches,” Laura crows, because she got the boardwalk and put like twelve houses on it. Stiles wants to cry because holy shit, that’s a large dent in his and Erica’s bank.

Since monopoly is such a time-consuming game, they play a strict sixty rounds, and Stiles does not see the game getting any better. He’s right because he and Erica lose. Even worse, they come in dead last.

Laura and Lydia bask in their victory; beaming while Scott arranges the names on the board to reflect the rankings. Stiles glances at Erica and she gives him a look back.

“This shit just got serious,” she says.

“Really?”

“I don’t lose Stilinski,” she tells him—her brown eyes burning with a competitive fire (that totally shouldn’t be a turn on for him but it so is, holy god). “I came here to win.”

***

“Mother of _fuck_ —” Scott protests as Erica cuts him off at the slide. She’s ruthless as hell. Chutes and Ladders has never been such a high stakes game before, but Erica wasn’t lying when she said shit got serious.

***

They annihilate at Hungry, Hungry Hippos. Erica slams her hand down viciously. “Eat all of the balls!” she cheers as she comes away from the round with her hippos mouth stretched wide around her loot. “Deep throat that shit.” 

His friends collapse in laughter. Stiles is pretty sure he’s in love.

***

The last game of this round is Life. Erica and Stiles end up married with seven kids, two cars, and a shack for a house. Neither of them can stop laughing.

“Either I’m fertile as hell,” Erica says, “or you took wayyy too much Viagra.”

Nonetheless, Erica and Stiles are crowned winners of the board game round. The picture (no flash) they take is in celebration of their victory. Erica stands pressed against his side; her hair obscuring most of the bruises on the side of his face.

***

The next round is trivia games. They start off with Cranium, where Lydia and Laura face some real competition against Erica and Stiles.

They enter a quick fire round where Lydia and Laura win on the stupidest question known to man.

“You’re kidding me!”

“Son of a bitch,” Stiles groans as Lydia dances around the table. She kisses Laura victoriously as Erica and Stiles trade over-exaggerated disgruntled looks.

***

Erica and Cora go head to head in Cards Against Humanity, but Erica wins the card…”___in the trap” with “Bees”. Stiles almost cries from laughter, especially when she starts singing the song.

Cora caves because she’s laughing too hard to actually care. It doesn’t help when Isaac and Allison join in singing the song.

***

They play boys versus girls in Charades. Stiles wins because his friends know his weird mannerisms better than they know Erica’s. It’s an unfair advantage, but Erica doesn’t seem to mind. The girls wipe the floor with them in Taboo, though.

***

Couples point wise, Lydia and Laura take first. Stiles and Erica take second. Individually, Lydia wins that round.

***

The last round is card games. Stiles hears the group of parents come outside during the final part of the tournament. The adults get a kick out of watching them play card games. It’s the one time the whole group of teens can get away with being as vulgar as they want to be.

His dad starts grilling while the round commences—a beer in hand.

They start off with poker. Lydia has the best blank face of all of them, so she makes a sweep at that game.

“You’re a fucking Vulcan, I swear to god—” Erica, all Erica and Stiles can’t stop laughing.

“There goes my dignity.”

“You’re playing poker with _Lydia_ , Scott,” Isaac says, “You should’ve checked your dignity at the door.”

 Stiles takes the gold when they play bullshit. He thoroughly enjoys calling everyone out on their dirty, filthy lies. He can spot each of their tells from a mile away.

“You fucking _liar_ —”

“Damn it, Stiles!”

“Bullshit Derek; you ain’t got shit—”

“Call me out one more time, I swear—”

“Bullshit!”

“I know where you sleep at night, asshole!”

He wins the game (but he’s more proud of the fact that he made Erica laugh so hard that her eyes watered).

***

The third game is Uno. Erica and Stiles play to win. They throw as many reverses and draw fours as possible to screw people over.

Scott looks betrayed when Stiles slaps him with both cards. “I thought we were _family_ man—“

“Sorry, dude, but in the game of love; the game wins.”

They dominate and walk away with a victory. Erica bounces in her seat and they high five each other.

***

The last game of the tournament is slap jack. Things obviously get violent quickly. There are two rounds of the game because twelve people can’t play at the same time. So they play boys versus girls.

Stiles has no mercy. The girls stand behind their respective partners—cheering loudly and jeering at each other. He loves that they all reflexively scream when a jack hits the pile and the mayhem begins.

The first round is tense and there’s shouting when another jack hits the table. Stiles almost loses the pot when Scott is a hair quicker than him. The second another jack hits the table, Stiles has the pile of cards in front of him and Scott is nursing a bruised finger.

Erica grips his shoulders in excitement. He wins the game. None of the boys leave the table without hand injuries of some sort. Stiles has a scraped knuckle.

 If she wins the girls round; they’ll win the tournament in first place.

She sits down in his seat and Stiles rubs her shoulders. She gives him a distracted smile before focusing completely on the game as the cards are dealt.

The backyard is totally silent as they start playing. They make it past everyone twice before the first jack is thrown. Stiles barely blinks before Erica’s hand is on the stack.

Everyone stares in disbelief because he didn’t even see her move.

“What the fuck—“

“Holy shit—“

“Oh my god—“

“Are you Speedy Gonzales or something?”

Isaac’s hands are in his hair. Erica smirks and the game continues—the competitive tension rising. The yells erupt next time as Cora manages to steal the cards. Boyd has to walk in a couple of circles because it’s so stressful. Stiles gnaws on his finger and Scott is coaching Kira to breathe because she’s almost out of the game already.

The game escalates until only Braeden, Lydia and Erica are left with cards in hand. It gets vicious enough that Stiles has to pause the game and say, “—no rings! Holy fuck! Oh my god, someone is going to bleed on my table—“

Erica wins the round and Stiles yells in victory. Erica stares in disbelief for a second before she’s out of her chair and screaming too.

“Ayyyyyyy!” Stiles sings, dancing around in exuberant joy. When he busts out the running man, Erica starts laughing. They jump up and down together. The two only calm down when they realize that one, Allison is filming this on her phone, and two, everyone else is laughing hysterically; including their parents.

Erica and Stiles cause a major upset when they usurp Isaac and Cora’s couples throne. Erica wins the individuals competition—beating Lydia by two points (“two motherfucking points!”).

She beams when Stiles snaps a photo of her (again, no flash). Lydia captures another picture of Stiles and Erica, standing together wearing their fake crowns. They’re both laughing.

***

Erica is in the middle of putting Monopoly back together when Stiles approaches her; football in hand. “Are you okay to play flag football?” he asks and she beams at him.

“Duh,” she replies and Stiles grins.

They play guys versus girls again—and this time, the parents get involved in the fun. Stiles already knows that Allison and Kira are badass at football, which is why he’s nervous when he sees them conspiring with Erica.

He’s right to be afraid because the girls proceed to wipe the floor with them. In the first half alone, Allison scores two touchdowns and Erica recovers a fumble.

Stiles lines up across the line of play—staring her down and she winks at him.

“You scared, Reyes?” he asks.

“You wish,” she replies.

The play begins and Erica launches into a sprint. Lydia, playing quarterback, makes a pass that Stiles manages to intercept and switch directions. Stiles hears Erica’s outburst of rage and his team’s cheers as he runs down the field. He can hear Erica pounding after him.

He reaches the end zone and Erica rips his flag off, but not before he leaps over the line and makes a touchdown.

“It’s on now, Stilinski.”

Stiles wiggles his eyebrows at her, which makes her shove his face away. He laughs as she runs away—sticking her tongue out over her shoulder at him.

The girls end up winning the game with a touchdown by Braeden.

The dinner that follows is loud, raucous, and a fun time for everyone. Erica steals food off of Stiles’ plate and he responds with fork dueling. Stiles doesn’t even see the knowing looks that his friends are giving him and Erica as they argue over the last bit of mashed potatoes.

When she shoves the food in her mouth and chews, Stiles can’t help but laugh at her before he steals the last rib on her plate.

***

“Can I use your shower?” Erica asks and Stiles almost drops the dishes he’s carrying. Erica. Naked. In his shower. Holy shit. Scott looks like he’s about to piss himself from laughing. “I’m gross and somehow barbeque sauce managed to get past my t-shirt and hide in between my boobs.”

Stiles’ brain short circuits. There’s too much sensory input. The imagery is enough to overload his brain. Erica, naked, shower, breasts—fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.

“Uhhhh,” he says. “Sure.” Stiles is pretty sure that his voice breaks somewhere in that sentence, but for the sake of his sanity, he’s going to ignore it.

“Thanks Stilinski,” she replies, “Be down in a few.” Erica starts towards the stairs, but she’s intercepted by Allison.

“This may be awkward, but it’s total girl protocol to do each other’s hair,” Allison says and Erica’s eyebrows shoot up. If Stiles wasn’t so busy having a heart attack over Erica showering in his bathroom (naked Erica where Stiles is naked and often does things boys do while naked), he probably would’ve noticed how uncertain she looks. “I can wash your hair for you in my bathroom, and I can even show you some cool conditioning tricks.”

Stiles does notice when she touches her hair self-consciously. “You think you can get rid of the frizz?” Erica asks. “I’ve been trying for years, and the humidity kills me every time. I think it’s just stubborn.”

Allison grins and Lydia appears next to her. Erica looks a little bit apprehensive about Lydia’s appraising eye, but she doesn’t falter underneath the strawberry blonde’s stare. “We can help you,” Lydia declares. “Meet us in Al’s room. Will twenty minutes be enough time for you to shower?”

“I only need like ten,” Erica says with a shrug. “If you can get the frizz to go away, I’ll be even faster than that.”

Lydia actually laughs. Erica disappears upstairs. Lydia and Allison whisper to each other about “deep conditioning”, “hot oil treatments” and “split ends” all the way up. Kira, Cora, Braeden and Laura join them a few minutes later.

Stiles can’t stop his brain from picturing Erica, naked, in his shower. What the fuck? He drops the X-box controller when he hears the water turn on. The look on Stiles face has to be ridiculous because Scott howls. Derek almost falls out of his chair laughing. Boyd is doing his best to keep a straight face, but he cracks a minute later.

Isaac is the only one nice enough to muffle his laughter in a couch cushion. Stiles hates them all.

***

They don’t see the girls until well past midnight; when the adults decide that it’s time for everyone to go to bed. Stiles is convinced that his dad was tired of getting his ass blown off a cliff in Super Smash Bros, but he can’t prove anything.

He troops upstairs with his friends; unsurprised to see the girls already gathered around the television, laughing about something. Now comes the hard part—choosing a bedtime movie.

“I vote Captain America—“

“We watched that last time!”

“What about—”

“I’m gonna go to the restroom,” Erica whispers to Stiles and he nods at her. She stands up and vanishes silently.

“The Notebook was banned two years ago, and it will stay banned.” There had actually been a mutiny over it and any Nicholas Sparks inspired movies were prohibited. Stiles is still scarred from being forced to watch ‘The Last Song’.

“I hate all of you.”

“We hate that movie more, so it’s okay.”

“Batman Begins?”

“No!”

“My Girl?”

“Do you want me to cry tonight?”

“Monsters, Inc,” is Scott’s suggestion. For the first time in a long time, everyone agrees. Its twenty minutes into the movie before Stiles realizes that Erica never came back.  

***

“Erica?” Stiles calls softly; not wanting to wake anyone that may be sleeping. Most of his friends are passed out in the loft, but his parents might be sleeping—neither one sleeps deeply either. The other parents already packed up and left for the evening.

 Their respective teens would be able to get a ride home with someone else in the morning.

He wonders where she went, but he finds out quickly when he comes to his room. He opens the door quietly and isn’t surprised when he finds Erica staring back at him.

She’s sitting on his bed; her legs criss-crossed and her surprisingly tame curls tucked behind her ears.

“Lydia is a wizard,” she says and Stiles grins as he walks inside. “She managed to get rid of most of my frizz in less than an hour.” He closes the door behind him. “Lydia told me that we’re going to the salon on Wednesday because my hair needs some ‘deep and tender TLC’.”

“You made plans to hang out with Lydia?” he asks, because if Lydia made plans with anyone, then they’d made a damn good impression.

“I don’t think I had much of an option,” she replies. Stiles laughs as he drops next to her on the bed. “She kind of took my phone, put her number in, snapped a contact photo and told me she’d text me the details on Monday. I didn’t protest. I have a feeling that I would’ve lost a limb if I did.”

“Good instinct,” Stiles says. She huffs in amusement.

“I’m kinda excited,” she says, “Your sister is really nice. Lydia is overwhelming, but fun. I like them all.”

She doesn’t say much else, but Stiles has learned to read between the lines. Erica doesn’t talk about how she feels, not really. It’s all in her face, her eyes and the way she moves. She looks happy; nervous, a little awkward too, but happy. Really happy if the way her eyes shine tell him anything.

“Why’d you leave the room?” he asks. She looks down at her lap and Stiles wonders why she suddenly seems tense—and holy god, he’s an idiot because—“…you can’t sleep with the TV on.”

Erica’s gaze flies back up to his face, bewildered. She blinks at him for a second (enough time for Stiles to want to punch himself in the face because he should’ve thought about it but he didn’t) before her eyebrows furrow.

“No, I can’t,” she answers, “but how’d you know that?”

His research of course. Stiles should’ve known because people with PSE can’t sleep with the television on. The colors shine through their eyelids and could trigger a seizure in their sleep. They aren’t supposed to watch TV when they’re tired anyway and especially not in a dark room like the loft where his friends are sleeping.

Erica is still waiting for an answer and Stiles blushes furiously. He briefly considers lying, but decides that she’d probably find out later anyway.

She looks taken aback when he stands up. “Stilinski…?” she calls, uncertain as he walks to his desk and drags a notebook out of the drawer. Cheeks on fire, Stiles makes his way back to the bed and he hands it to her.

Erica stares between him and the notebook before taking it from his hand. “What’s this?” she asks.

Stiles drops down next to her. “Take a look,” he says.

Her brows furrow deeply, but she flips open the cover and blinks when she sees the spastic writing across the page. It only takes a few seconds of reading for her to understand why the information looks so familiar.

Stiles sits next to her, uncomfortable with letting someone see how much time and energy he’d invested in researching a disease that wasn’t his own. Erica flips through the notebook—scanning over each page; passing article clippings, index cards, scanned pages from books.

“You researched photosensitive epilepsy?” she asks, incredulous. She’s still staring at the notebook in her hands, but it’s closed now.

“Yeah—“

“This must have taken you hours,” she says, “You only found out on Thursday! How, what?”

And here comes the humiliating part. “I get caught up,” he admits. “I was too wired to sleep—my brain running too fast and I couldn’t get a hold on it until I knew what your disease was and how I could help. It took me all night, but I don’t mind.”

He hears her suck in a breath. Stiles can’t tell if she’s mad at him or something else, but he really doesn’t want to be shunned by Erica.

“You—“ Erica starts, but falters and stops. Stiles looks over at her, surprised to see her hands gripping the notebook tightly.

“You okay?” he asks, concerned and Erica looks up at him. Her eyes are red and watery and her eyes—holy shit, her expression is vulnerable and soft and wary and it breaks something in his chest wide open. She’s looking at him with such—fuck, he doesn’t even know; is that sincerity?—that it makes his head spin.

“You just—“ she says, but she pauses (breathes) and then continues, “This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.” She tears her eyes away from him and he cans see her bite her bottom lip. When she turns back to face him, he’s swept away again.

“I saw that you kept my note,” she tells him, “You research my disease. You bring me flowers. You don’t demand that I tell you what’s going on with my life and it just makes me want to talk to you more. Stiles, I don’t get you. What do you want here? From me? Because I’ve got nothing.”

She sounds so lost and frustrated.

“I just want to be your friend, “ he says, honestly because he does want that, but he wants so much more too. “I don’t know where we’ll end up, but you—already mean a lot to me. I don’t lose my shit over just anyone, you know.”

He nudges her shoulder with his own and she lets out a choked laugh.

“You said, ‘I’ve got you’,” she says, meeting his eyes directly. Stiles feels his breath leave him. “Did you mean it?”

They stare at each other for a long moment. “I’m sitting right here,” Stiles replies. “What do you think?”

For a second, Stiles is sure that he just monumentally screwed everything up, but he’s blindsided when Erica wraps her arms around his shoulders. He hugs her instinctively, even though the hug is a little awkward with them sitting side-by-side, but he doesn’t plan on letting go.

“I think you’d make a good Batman,” she whispers. Stiles’ heart drops into his stomach, because yep, he’s definitely got a crush on Erica and he’s got it bad.


	3. And I'm ready to suffer and I'm ready to hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf. 
> 
> I will update again on Thursday. :) Happy reading!
> 
> Follow me on:  
> Tumblr: [IamTellNoOne](http://iam-tellnoone.tumblr.com/)  
> WordPress: [Stephanie Rhesa](http://stephanierhesa.wordpress.com/)  
> Twitter: [@StephanieITA](https://twitter.com/StephanieITA)  
> 

The last thing Stiles expected to see on Monday morning is Erica standing at her locker, surrounded by three girls. Allison leans against the locker to Erica’s right; he’s too far down the hall to hear anything she’s saying, but he can see her lips move. Kira stands next to Lydia; her elbow slung through the crook of the other girl’s arm. She’s smiling, and Lydia is wearing her game face (the one that says she’s smiling but no one can actually tell unless you know her really well).

“Dude,” Scott says from behind his left shoulder. “Did I put my history binder back in my bag?”

“I think you had it on the kitchen counter,” Stiles answers, “don’t tell me you forgot it—“

He glances over at his brother when he hears frantic unzipping, and wants to laugh as Scott paws through his backpack in search of his homework. If he doesn’t turn in another assignment, he’s going to be grounded alongside Stiles.

Stiles can understand that panic. Scott looks relieved when he finds his history homework (sans binder) crumpled under his English notebook.  “Oh man, that would’ve sucked—“

“At least you didn’t forget Harris’ homework,” Boyd says. Stiles does laugh when Scott freezes mid-step.

“ _Shit_ ,” Scott mutters.

“You didn’t do your chemistry homework?” Stiles asks and Scott pales. He deserves the panic, because really? He doesn’t do the homework for the one teacher that can’t stand the sight of his brother, and you know he shares the same hyphenated last name with him. Scott draws Harris’ ire too just because he’s related to Stiles, but Allison (not even a soulless ass-hat like Harris can resist Allison’s dimples).

“I forgot we had any!” he protests. “With work and the barbecue, I didn’t even think about it.”

“You had all day Sunday, dude,” Stiles replies and Scott grimaces.

“Well, I slept in and went over to Kira’s to do homework and well—“The blush on his brother’s face tells Stiles everything he needs to know (and absolutely nothing he needed confirmed).

“Shut up,” he says as he slings his backpack from over his shoulder. He grabs his chemistry binder and hands it to Scott. “Do seven problems on your own and copy the rest. Skip numbers so it’s not obvious. Bring it back to me before third period and _don’t get caught_.”

Scott shoots him a grateful look before speeding off down the hallway. He stops to give Kira a quick kiss, hug Lydia and share a fist bump with Allison and Erica, before he continues on.

Stiles and Boyd reach the girls just as Scott flies around the far corner and disappears down the hallway.

“What lit a fire under his ass?” Allison asks, before she dimples at Boyd and he presses a kiss to her forehead. He snakes his arm around her waist and pulls her back to his chest.

“He forgot to do his chemistry homework,” Stiles says with a roll of his eyes. Kira flushes pink, but her small smirk is unapologetic.

“You let him copy?” Lydia asks, eyeing her fingernails critically.

“What do you think I am?” Stiles questions, “An idiot? He’s not copying verbatim. I told him to do seven on his own; which he’ll probably get wrong. And I told him to skip random numbers throughout for his seven attempts. He’ll get a low B or a high C.”

Lydia looks slightly impressed. Stiles calls it a win. “Where’s my hug, woman?” he demands. Lydia gives him a flat look, but she hugs him tightly for a second then moves away. Kira kisses his cheek with a grin.

“Hi Erica,” he says and she smiles at him.

“Hey Stilinski,” she replies, closing her locker door.

“You’re sitting with us at lunch, right?” Lydia asks. Erica seems startled by the question, but she agrees quickly.

“Can we sit outside, though?” she asks, “It’s a nice day out and the cafeteria’s not exactly my domain.”

Lydia shrugs. “Sure,” she says, “but if I get grass stains, you’re buying me a new dress.”

“Suck it up, Martin,” Erica responds, “I’m pretty sure your reputation would _increase_ if you showed up to class with grass stains.” That comment makes Allison giggle. Stiles and Kira laugh loudly. Boyd buries his chuckles in Allison’s hair. Lydia rewards Erica with an appreciative smirk.

“I like the fact that Laura and I can fuel the fantasies of our classmates.”

“Are you fucking kidding? You _are_ the fantasy, Lydia,” Erica says, “The hot redhead and older brunette getting frisky on the lacrosse field? I’ve had troublesome thoughts about the two of you, and as far as I know, I’m strictly dickly.”

That startles a laugh out of Lydia. Stiles chokes on his laughter. Allison lets out a loud snort.

“Don’t boost her ego anymore,” Stiles says, “The town is already suffering under its weight.”

“My greatness is the only thing that willingly sits on top of this town,” Lydia replies. “And you know you love it, Stilinski.”

She reaches a hand out to Allison, who takes it after kissing Boyd goodbye.  “Later!” Lydia says, interlocking her fingers with Allison’s. Lydia drags Allison down the hallway; the brunette sending a friendly wave over her shoulder.

“See you at lunch,” Kira says, before she nudges Boyd’s shoulder to get moving. They share the same class during first period. Stiles watches the two of them walk down the hallway—Boyd saying something (probably dry and scathing) to Kira that makes her laugh. 

He grins to himself, before turning to look at Erica. He’s fast enough to catch her tearing her eyes away from his face and as curious as he is, he spies the blush that darkens her cheeks.

“Made some new friends?” he asks and he pointedly ignores the way she still looks flustered (and how cute she looks when she blushes). Erica shrugs sheepishly.

“Looks that way,” she says.

“Told you they’d like you,” he tells her. Erica slips her bag over her shoulder and steps away from the lockers.

“Yes,” she says, “you were right, Stilinski. I managed to fumble my way into a good impression.”

“Good?” Stiles ask, incredulous. Erica raises her eyebrows at him as they make their way down the hall. “You made _Lydia_ laugh! That took me four months of stupid antics, embarrassment, and groveling.”

Erica lets out a huff of laughter. Their shoulders brush and Stiles tries to ignore the butterflies that swarm in his stomach, but he can’t fight back the blush that warms his cheeks (damn his genetics).

“Maybe you weren’t doing it right,” she says with a smirk, before she turns on her heel; almost non-frizzy hair swinging behind her. Stiles grins at the back of her head and he thinks she looks extra gorgeous when she peers at him over her shoulder; blonde ringlets swinging across her cheek.

Her brown eyes sparkle with teasing and Stiles makes a face at her as he rushes to catch up.

“ _Rude_ ,” he calls to her.

She laughs.

***

“ _Motherfucker_ —”

Erica does not look happy. He can spy the frown on her face from three feet away—hair tucked behind her ears, gnawing on her pencil, notebook thrown haphazardly across her textbook.

“Whoa,” Stiles says, “There are innocent ears in the vicinity.” He steps closer and can finally make out the chemistry equations on the open textbook.

“I’ve heard you and your potty mouth,” Erica replies. “Don’t front, Stilinski.”

“You’ve got me there,” he admits, dropping his backpack to the ground and then plopping down next to her. “Why the hell are you doing chemistry right now?”

They had chemistry class less than ninety minutes ago. Stiles is determined, but he can only deal with the thought of Harris so many times a day at spaced out intervals.

“Everything that man said today totally went over my head,” she answers—her voice carries a heavy note of grumpiness. “And we have his stupid test in two weeks. I refuse to fail Harris McAsshole’s class, okay. _I refuse_.”

Stiles laughs and Erica elbows him in the side; eliciting a grunt from him.

Once he’s calm again, Stiles asks, “What are you having trouble with?”

“Redox problems—reduction and oxidation,” she says. “This shit makes no sense!”

“Alright, alright; let me see it,” he tells her. “Lydia might be better at it than I am, but I think I can help.” Stiles scoots closer to her and she glances at his face.

“Lydia’s a genius and all,” Erica says—meeting his eyes and then looking away, “but I think I’d like it better if you helped me.”

Stiles almost has a heart attack, because does that mean she’s interested in him too? Is his crush on someone finally being reciprocated? Or is he reading too much into something simple?

He clears his throat. “Yeah, yeah, uh, I’ll help,” he says. “But we have this big group study session at my house every couple of days and you can come if you want to. A lot of us share classes, and we like to study together when we can. We’re having one tonight after lacrosse practice—so probably around six. It’s nothing big or anything--”

“Stiles,” she interrupts, “I’ll be there. Can I get a ride?”

“Yeah,” he says, “you can ride with me or Allison.”

“Okay,” she says, “Can we still work on it now, though?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he replies. The two of them huddle together. Stiles flips through Erica’s notes and can’t resist making fun of how spastic some of her writing is.

“No wonder you can’t figure this shit out; what does that even say—”

Erica smacks him on the arm. “Shut up, Stiles. I was writing everything Harris said—“

“I can tell,” he replies; pointing at her paper. “Does that say, ‘Harris coughed and scowled like a douchebag’ or—“

Erica laughs. “ _Stiles_!”

He grins at her and he can’t help but blush when she scoots closer and relaxes into his side. Stiles stops teasing her and starts reworking her notes. He goes from memory because while he could reach into his backpack to grab his chemistry binder, he has no desire to let Erica move her soft warmth from against his arm.

For about ten minutes, the two talk quietly. Stiles works his way through her notes; explaining the concepts and pointing out different ways to look at different problems. The two of them are mid-problem when Stiles looks at Erica, smiling and—

***

He comes out of his unconscious state to the ends of his sister’s brown hair tickling his face and a soft hand patting his cheek. “Stiles? You need to open your eyes.”

She doesn’t sound panicked, but she does sound concerned. He’s dazed, but not dazed enough to ignore his sister.

“What just happened?” he groans, feeling a dull throb at the back of his head.

“You got nailed in the head with a soccer ball,” she replies. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

He squints at her hand and says, “Two.”

Allison shines a tiny flashlight in his eyeballs that threatens to burn his retinas. For a second, he freaks out because he thinks about this happening to Erica, but then he realizes that he’s not the one with epilepsy and she’s fine.

“Well,” she says, “at least you’re not concussed. Mom would have a fit.” She helps him sit up and he finally registers the sound of someone yelling in the background. He sees Lydia—lunch in hand, looking faintly impressed. Scott, Boyd and Isaac are snickering by the tree. Derek has Braeden’s hand tucked into his own and the two are snuggled up against the tree. Cora has her head in Kira’s lap; getting her hair braided. Laura is watching the spectacle in front of her.

And Erica is—“You twice-used, peanut-sized, wad of dicks; apologize right the fuck now!”—yelling at a guy that Stiles barely recognizes from the school soccer team. He looks stunned at the small blonde’s ire, and boy is she cussing up a storm.

If Stiles wasn’t sort of dizzy and his head wasn’t aching like crazy, he’d probably cheer her on, but he’s pretty sure that it was an accident.

“Catwoman, retract the claws,” he says. Erica freezes mid-sentence to whip around and look at him. Allison helps him off the ground. Erica’s brown eyes are full of panicked worry. “I’m fine and I don’t think this dude hit me on purpose.”

Stiles dares the boy to disagree with his eyes, but he nods quickly, grabs his ball and bails.

Erica looks ready to chase after him, but she decides to go to Stiles instead. “You’re going to have one hell of a lump at the back of your head.”

Stiles laughs, and then winces. “Fifty percent of my face was already bruised. What’s one more on top of that?”

She rolls her eyes at him, but she gives him an exasperated smile.

***

The day started off so well. That should’ve warned him about how it would end. Stiles drives home from lacrosse practice; his face throbbing from his bruises and the lump on the back of his head a fierce ache.

They did man-down drills during practice today, so Stiles took more than his fair share of full body tackles. He wouldn’t be surprised if he had a bruise across his torso from Jackson plowing into his side. _The douchebag._

Scott nurses some gnarly shin bruises on his leg from a mid-tackle collision with Boyd (who got a bony elbow to the face and a bloody nose; thankfully not broken). Kira took a ball to the helmet and Isaac got run over by two defenders. Derek, as Captain, took great pride in all the injuries.

No one could say that Finstock didn’t push them hard. Coach was having a conniption because their first game of the season is on Friday.

The five of them spill out of the car—all showered after practice, but the soreness is finally kicking in. Once inside, Stiles takes three ibuprofen and Scott helps him fasten an icepack to his head. They have to be particularly creative to wrap the back of his head and the bruises on the side of his face.

Stiles secures a bag of ice to Scott’s swollen shin before Isaac slips his shirt off. The two of them rig icepacks to Isaac’s torso and he sighs in relief as the ice starts numbing the soreness.

Kira lays face down on the couch with an icepack on the back of her head. Boyd has a cold press resting on the bridge of his nose.

“Have I mentioned how much I hate pre-season training?” Stiles asks. “Because I do. If you haven’t noticed—I really, really do.”

“Everyone hates pre-season training,” Isaac says, “but most of it is tolerable until Coach reaches this stage of freak-out.”

“Does it bother anyone that Coach has stages of crazy that we find acceptable?” Scott asks. “I mean, people usually run the other direction when someone hits stage one of crazy. We don’t get scared of Coach until he’s at like stage six.”

“That’s easy,” Boyd says. “The crazier Finstock is the better his training gets.”

“He scares me, but I’ve never felt unprepared for a game.” Kira says.

Stiles is helping Scott sit up on the counter when the front door opens and—“Honey, we’re home!”

Laura is such a little shit.

“We’re in the kitchen, honey biscuit!” Stiles replies. No one said that he wasn’t a little shit too. Laura is the strong, silent type—until you get to know her. After that, she is incorrigible, scheming and sarcastic. Stiles _loves_ it.

They’ve known each other since they were toddlers. Laura was the first one to talk to Stiles in pre-school. Derek was dragged along for the ride. He remembers that first time in kindergarten when Laura decided she wanted all of the purple crayons for herself.

She snuck into the teachers’ supply closet and stole every, single purple crayon from every box. The teacher was furious when she found out, and Laura (the little snake) used her big doe eyes to convince the teacher that Stiles had done it.

He got banished from art for three weeks.

It took him a few years to recognize her genius, but he eventually did and their friendship has been solid since.

“Muffin,” Laura says, entering the kitchen with a dramatic pout. “I’ve come from a long, hard, day at work. Where’s my cuddles? Better yet, where’s my food?”

“Do you not see the ice contraption around my skull?” he asks. “I’m injured, baby cakes. Have some sympathy, won’t you?”

“You all look rather pathetic,” she says, dropping her backpack on the counter with a heavy thud.

“Have enough homework to do tonight?” Scott asks.

Laura shrugs. “I’ve barely done any in the last two weeks. Seemed like a good day to catch up.”

Kira lifts her head to stare at her, incredulously. “How do you have the fourth highest GPA in our class?” she asks, “You never do anything on time.”

“I’m a genius,” Laura replies. “Not my fault that teachers recognize awesome when it’s in their presence.”

“How has Lydia’s anal retentive behavior not rubbed off on you?” Kira questions. “I spent three hours doing homework with her almost a month ago, and I still can’t stop checking my planner and doing extra credit.”

Stiles laughs.

“Lydia has rubbed off on me,” Laura says, “but it had nothing to do with _anal_.”

“Oh my god, Laura—”

Scott cackles so hard that he almost falls off the counter. Isaac lets out a guffaw, but groans the next second as it reminds him about his bruised torso.

Stiles is dying. Boyd tries to hide his chuckle with a fake cough, but it doesn’t work. Derek, Cora, and Braeden walk into the kitchen with Laura wearing a huge smirk on her face.

He rolls his eyes at his sister. “I don’t even want to know.”

“What? You don’t want to hear what I did to bring the house down, baby bro?”

“Laura, you’re two minutes older than me. I’m not your baby brother.”

“I want to know,” Cora says, sliding over to Isaac and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“It’s _Laura_ ,” Derek stresses. “Whatever she said was probably dirty and scarring.”

“I like dirty and scarring,” Cora replies. “It makes life fun.”

“How am I related to you people?” Derek asks.

“Alright, grump,” Stiles says. “Calm down. I’m sure Laura will have plenty of other dirty, scarring things to say tonight. Missing one won’t hurt you.”

Derek pulls Braeden close. With an amused grin, she lets him hide his face in her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Braeden says. “I’ll let you do dirty things to me later to make up for your torment. We can scar your sister with our sex noises.”

The disgusted look on Laura’s face makes them all laugh. Allison is the next one to enter the kitchen. Lydia comes a second later; her Burberry bag tossed over one shoulder. Allison looks torn about who to go to first—brothers or boyfriend.

She chooses brothers. “What happened to you guys? Finstock again? And Stiles, how’s your head?”

“We’re fine,” Scott answers. “And yes, Finstock decided to try and kill his team four days before our first game.”

“My head is currently numb, so I’m doing pretty good right now; thanks.”

“You’re such an idiot,” Allison says, rolling her eyes. “I’ll look at your skull later on. I’m pretty sure you don’t have a concussion, but it never hurts to double check.” She gives them both quick hugs, before moving to Boyd’s side.

Stiles watches her gently tug the ice pack from her boyfriend’s face. Allison checks his nose for herself, deems it acceptable and kisses him softly before pushing the ice in his hand towards his face again. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and Stiles loves the way his friend looks at his sister.

Boyd stares at Allison like most people stare at a starry sky untouched by light pollution—with awe, a little bit of fear and a whole lot of appreciation.

Erica is the last one to walk inside the kitchen; slipping her cellphone into the pocket of her jeans.

“Let’s get set up in the living room,” Lydia says with a clap of her hands. “Stiles, is the dry erase board up in your room still?”

“Yeah,” he replies, looking at her. He sees Erica straighten up from the corner of his eye. “The markers should be in Al’s room though.”

Lydia isn’t paying attention anymore. She kicks off her Louboutins and grabs Laura’s hand. “We’ll get it.” They disappear from the room but Stiles’ attention is taken completely when Erica walks over to him.

“I know,” he says as she stops directly in front of him. From where he leans against the counter, Erica is close enough that he can see each of her freckles across the bridge of her nose. “I look like a Jackson Pollack painting.”

Erica laughs. She hesitates for a moment, but her hand reaches out to him. The second her fingertips touch his face, Stiles tenses at the tingling sensation. Her fingers trail around his bruises and Stiles tries to keep his face from burning red hot (he’s losing badly).

She takes her time, even stepping closer and he feels like he can’t breathe because Jesus, she’s gorgeous (and he doesn’t ever want her to stop touching him).

It definitely doesn’t feel like the clinical but loving touches his mom or Al did. His heart is doing the Dougie in his chest and he’s convinced himself that she has to hear it (or feel the way it’s pounding under his skin).

After a few moments, Erica drops her hand. Stiles only has a few seconds to miss it, before Erica steps into his space and falls against him in a hug. With her arms around his neck, her face tucked into the space between his shoulder and neck, breath tickling his collarbone; Stiles lets himself bask in her warmth and softness.

He places his hands on her lower back, and he feels her shudder. Her arms tighten around him. Stiles returns the favor.

“You scared me, you know,” she says and Stiles has to forcibly think of horrible things to stop his body from reacting to the feel of her pressing against him and the way her lips brushed his bare skin as she spoke.

He swallows thickly. “Talk about role reversals,” he says.

Her blonde hair smells like almonds and something softly sweet—it’s incredibly distracting.

She huffs. “Maybe we should eat lunch inside.”

“What?” he asks. “It doesn’t look like I enjoy balls being thrown at my head?”

“It didn’t seem to be your thing,” she says. “You being unconscious doesn’t imply a happy ending.” Stiles opens his mouth to say something, but Erica continues, “I definitely didn’t enjoy it.”

He shuts up for a minute.

“Good to know,” he says—turning his face into her hair (holy god, it’s kind of frizzy, but it’s soft and smells so good). “At least I’m not concussed. I can still help you with chemistry.”

Erica muffles a laugh into his shoulder. “I don’t think we need any help there,” she mutters.

“Are you flirting with me, Reyes?”

He feels her smile. “Is my seduction technique working?” she asks.

“You tell me,” he replies. Stiles can’t fight back his blush; the moment is too intense and borderline nerve-wracking for him to contain it. Erica pulls back. She’s wearing a small smile and her brown eyes sparkle at him.

The sound of Lydia and Laura dropping the whiteboard on the stairs breaks the moment. Erica blinks rapidly, turns bright pink and steps away from him. His stomach sinks as an argument breaks out on the stairs.

Erica runs a nervous hand through her hair and says, “So, studying? Yeah, _yeah_. That sounds like a great idea.” She bolts before he can get a word in. He watches her blonde ringlets disappear around the corner with his jaw slack.

He shares a commiserating look with Scott, who pats him on the shoulder.

“—you fucking dropped it, Laura! It’s a _whiteboard_ ; it’s not like it’s heavy!”

“How about you try carrying a big ass board down the stairs from _my_ point of view—“

“What are you talking about?”

“Your rack, Lydia,” Laura says. “Your glorious, pale, _perky rack_ that I’ve had my mouth all over periodically for the past three years—“

“What do my boobs have to do with you failing to carry a whiteboard?”

“Your dress is low cut,” Laura says, “which means that I get a heavenly eyeful as we’re carrying this fucking thing downstairs. Jesus himself probably would’ve popped a cloud if he got the view I just did. I mean, are we sure it’s not raining—“

Lydia’s laughter stops her mid-sentence. Erica laughs too. He can hear her from his spot in the kitchen. The sound of it makes Stiles’ heart race. Poor Scott is choking on his sip of Gatorade because he tried to laugh in the middle of a drink.

“Oh my god—“ Derek facepalms and Braeden cracks up next to him.

They eventually do study for over four hours, but it’s definitely not boring.

***

“Erica,” Allison says as Stiles is mid-swing. “Are you busy on Saturday?”

The blonde doesn’t answer for a moment, because she’s parrying furiously against Stiles’ perfect serve. He _owns_ Wii tennis. Erica didn’t know who she was challenging when they started the tournament. Being distracted from their chemistry revision was a god send. They’d barely begun going over limiting reactants before Scott’s eyes teared up with frustration.

Erica, being the awesomely, wonderful perfect human that she is, mentioned the Wii before Scott’s irritation could get the best of him. The four of them gladly took a break from studying to play some tennis.

They decided to play rounds with best two out of three. Scott and Allison would be playing second round, but whoever won this round went on to the finals. Stiles wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

He smoked Erica during their first game. She beat him down during the second. Seeing the competitive fire burn behind her brown eyes made Stiles all kinds of hot. It didn’t help that she cussed under her breath every time he got in a good play. She makes him work for it, though.

Stiles has never run so goddamned much during a Wii tennis match before.

“No,” she replies, “I— _fuck you, Stiles_! That was a shitty play, oh my god—I’m not doing anything. Why?”

Allison cheers when Erica scores a point (bringing their score up to 5 – 4) before she says over Stiles’ renewed swearing, “We’re having girls night on Saturday—“

“Night?” Scott asks, derisive. “Don’t you mean day?”

Stiles laughs when he hears Allison punch Scott in the arm, and Scott’s subsequent yelp.

“As I was _saying,_ ” Allison continues, “We’re having a girls day—“ She pointedly ignores Scott’s snort. “—and I was wondering if you wanted to come?”

“Holy shit how did you—“ Erica scored another point with a wicked backswing. Allison lets out a loud, “hell yeah!” from her place on the couch.

“Oh my god Stiles what is happening—“

“Yes, I’d love to!” Erica says, before she throws herself across the floor to catch a fast ball from Stiles. “What time?”

“My mom will pick you up around ten on Saturday morning,” Allison replies.

“Mrs. Stilinski is coming?” Erica asks. The momentary distraction is enough for Stiles to score a point. Scott whoops and Erica growls under her breath.

“Yeah,” Allison says, “We go to a gun range and we need someone over eighteen to shoot—“

“Gun range—holy, no, NO SONOFABITCH!” Erica says as Stiles scores another point, bringing them to a tied 6 – 6.  “I’m in, Al. I’ll talk to my mom tonight, but I need to focus on beating the dust off of Stiles. He’s going _down_.”

“Sounds good,” Allison says. “Be warned; you’ll need a swimsuit and a sleeping bag.”

The four of them digress into shouting as the game heats up. Erica is one point away from winning. Scott and Allison are both on the couch; leaping and screaming as Stiles and Erica run from side to side trying to score on each other.

“C’mon Stiles, we can’t go out like this—“

“FINISH HIMMMMMMM!” Allison screams as Erica gears up; swings and Stiles just misses the ball and it sticks the corner. She wins the game.

Allison and Erica erupt into yells. Stiles can’t help but laugh because Erica starts humming the Tekken theme song and Allison joins in with a, “K.O!” Allison starts laughing when Erica tugs her off the couch and pulls her into a hug.

“Alright Scott,” Allison says, “You ready to get the beat down?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, “Bring it, Katniss.”

Allison winks as she straps the Wii controller onto her wrist. Stiles plops down on the sofa. Erica jumps, knees first, onto the cushion beside him.  She’s grinning and he pushes her face away with his hand.

Erica laughs and lets her body fall back into the rest of the couch. She shifts a pillow under her head and then kicks her bare feet into Stiles’ lap. He stares at her painted toes and Erica wiggles them in his lap.

“Is this the color from the weekend?” Stiles says, poking at her pinkie toe and making her squeal.

“Who says nail painting was part of our girl time?” she asks.

He gives her a look. “It’s Lydia and Allison,” he says. “I’ve played a large role in adding to Al’s monstrous nail polish collection. She repaints her toes every three days; so does Lydia. Al never has chipped nail polish—like ever.”

Erica laughs as she sits up on her elbows. “Does Allison make you paint her nails?”

Stiles feels his face heat and Erica sits up all the way, her jaw going slack. “Oh my god, she does!” she says with a laugh. She covers her mouth with her hand, but Stiles can see her eyes sparkling with amusement.

“It’s usually Lydia, actually,” he admits and Erica snorts. He’s blushing furiously but he loves making her laugh. “I’m second best out of the guys, so I used to get drafted into helping out with the nail painting. Scott’s pretty decent.”

“If you’re second best, who’s first?” Erica asks.

Stiles knows that he’ll probably die, but how is he supposed to resist that grin or the shine of curiosity in her eyes? How is he supposed to say no to that grin on her face?

“Derek,” he says. “Boyd is the best with hair—Allison made him learn how to French braid when we were fourteen from YouTube videos and he’s been addicted ever since. Isaac is the fashion guru of the group—”

Erica collapses into giggles.

“To answer your question, yes we did paint our nails,” she says when she finally calms down. “And yes, this is the color from Saturday.”

“It’s Tuesday,” Stiles says with a fake scandalized look. “Are you repainting tonight?”

“No,” Erica replies, pulling her feet from his lap and crossing her legs beneath her. “I’ll repaint them at our girl’s day, probably.”

“A whole week?” Stiles asks and she laughs—leaning her head against his shoulder.

“What can I say? I’m a rebel.”

“You definitely don’t follow the rules,” he says. Erica shifts to look up at him and he meets her gaze.

“I’ve found that following the rules makes me a very dull girl,” she says.

“I don’t think you could ever be dull.”

She huffs out a laugh and her soft smile fascinates Stiles. He finds himself leaning forward, but the sound of Allison cheering breaks their moment. The two of them jerk apart, but Erica slaps a wide grin on her face and whoops in victory.

Scott stares at his Wii controller like it failed him.

“I guess it’s me and Al in the final round,” Erica says.

“Catwoman versus Katniss,” Stiles replies, “That’s a face off I’m happy to see.”

“It’s only worth it if we’re both in full costume, Stilinski,” Erica tells him, strapping the controller to her wrist.

“Um,” Scott says, “This would be hot if Allison wasn’t my sister. I’m man enough to admit that you’re both extremely pretty.”

“Aww,” Allison coos. “Did my brother just give me a compliment? Are you getting sentimental?”

“You _suck_ ,” Scott says, throwing a pillow in her direction. She catches it, laughing. Stiles stares at Erica, whose cheeks are suffused with red. She looks back at him.

Their moment is broken once again by his siblings. Allison is ready for the final match. “Wear a tank top, shorts and some running shoes tomorrow,” she says.

Erica looks confused.

“Why?” she asks.

“Because it’s Whacky Wednesday,” Allison replies.

“Whacky Wednesday!” Scott crows from his spot on the couch. Stiles quickly joins in on the bro call. “Oh shit, did I wash my shirt?”

He leaves in a hurry. Stiles shakes his head.

“What’s whacky Wednesday?” Erica questions.

“We play games all day long,” Allison answers. “And the first—is a school wide, live game of Pac man. Whoever is the monster at the end buys ice cream for everyone at Isla’s after school.”

Allison motions upstairs. “I’m almost done making an extra shirt for you, but I’ll give it to you when I pick you up in the morning.”

“I thought Lydia and I were going to some hair salon thing after school tomorrow—“

“Oh we still are,” Allison laughs. “Kira and the boys still have lacrosse practice, so we should be done by then.”

“Sounds like I’ve got a lot to look forward to.”

“Yeah,” Allison says. “The fun will start after I kick your ass in this tennis match.”

Erica’s scoff starts the game.

***

“This is why you assholes almost ran me over in the hallway during freshman year!” Erica exclaims. Her statement makes them all laugh. The ten of them met up in the parking lot near Stiles’ jeep.

Everyone came dressed in standard Whacky Wednesday attire—jeans (usually shorts for the girls and designer shorts for Lydia) with white tanks or camisoles and a yellow Pac man shirt over it. They all wore running shoes.

Lydia wore a razorback from Lulu Lemon and L.E.I jeans. Her shoes are top of the line, custom Nikes and her hair is braided back—“Boyd did an excellent job.”

“Boyd did a fishtail braid?” Erica asks. “I want one!” She pouts at him and he gives in with a chuckle.  No one says much of anything when she clambers into the open hatch of Stiles’ jeep and pulls Boyd behind her.

“Lyds, brush please,” he says, holding out a hand. The redhead hands it over without a word. He works on her hair while Scott explains the game.

“Basically, we each draw from a cup of numbers; whoever gets the paper that says ‘1’ on it is the first monster. You can’t eat people in class, so you have to find everyone during passing periods. Lunch is a hunt-free zone—the game pauses. You have to touch the other person and if you touch them, they have to switch shirts with you right there. You also have to take a selfie in the monster shirt. If you never get caught, you get double ice cream.”

“Simple enough,” Erica says.

“The game gets high stakes, and whoever is Pac Man at the end pays for our ice cream.”

“How do we know who the new monster is?”

“You don’t,” Scott says, “That’s the fun of it. You have to be on the lookout for everyone.”

Erica rubs her hands together—making Stiles laugh. “Let’s get this party started.”

Boyd ties off her braid and she gives the larger dude a hug (Stiles loves seeing her smile). Kira tugs the red Pac Man shirt from her backpack and Allison holds out a cup. They each draw.

Isaac is the first monster. He slips off his shirt and tugs the other one on. Stiles whispers, “Part of the fun is seeing the guys run around in the girls’ shirts. It’s pretty damn hilarious by the end of the day.”

Erica grins.

The group takes a picture together before heading into school. Stiles gets a facebook alert on his phone just as he closes his locker door. It’s posted on Lydia’s wall and it says, ‘Let the games begin. #WW” and everyone is tagged individually in the photo.

Stiles has to laugh when Erica comments, ‘I swore to never be a red shirt.’ He likes both the picture and Erica’s comment before slipping his phone into his pocket.

The first bell rings and Stiles shifts into game mode. He can trust no one.

***

Stiles exits his first period class at a sprint. He managed to squeeze in next to Erica in history; the two sat as far away from Isaac as they could. Erica runs down the hall in the opposite direction. Isaac comes bolting out of the room.

Stiles rounds the corner—dodging people left and right to get to his next class without getting tagged. He passes Scott (who’s moving towards the pursuing Isaac) and tries to motion him away. His brother apparently doesn’t understand until Stiles has booked it past him.

He looks over his shoulder just in time to see Scott go down like a hunted deer under Isaac’s weight when the dude pounces on his back. Stiles laughs all the way to his next class.

***

Stiles gets fucking _sniped_ by Allison. He doesn’t know where the fuck she came from or how the hell Scott managed to tag her in the first place, but he’s sniped. He puts on the red shirt balefully and gallops off in search of new prey.

***

He tags Cora, who puts on the shirt and proceeds to chase a half-naked Stiles all the way down the hall until she sees a gaping Derek and bolts after him.

***

Cora manages to get Boyd after lunch and he tags Laura who bitches about her girlfriend deserting her in her time of need.

***

Laura, the little shit, gets Stiles again and he gears for Erica. He catches the blonde outside of their literature class and she cusses up a storm. They trade shirts and he photo-bombs her selfie.

***

Lydia wins the game because no one even saw her anywhere besides in class and at lunch.

“Did you fucking teleport here?” Cora asks.

“I’m just that good,” she says with a smirk. “Anyway, I get double ice-cream. Erica and I have a hair appointment to get to. See you all at Isla’s after your practice.” The redhead extends a hand to a startled Erica; she takes it and walks away with the other girl.

Allison drags Braeden along with them.

***

When Stiles sees Erica just two hours later, she takes his breath away. Her hair is no longer the bushy, frizzy, adorable mess that he’s used to. Her hair has been trimmed—it’s about an inch shorter than it used to be, but her curls are bouncy and golden in the warm sun that filters through the wide windows in Isla’s.

She’s wearing a yellow Pac Man t-shirt, cut off dark denim shorts and beat up black Converse high tops.

Erica sits down next to him and Stiles finds that he can’t quite get his heartbeat under control.  Her shy smile nearly does him in.

He thought she was beautiful before but now—“Holy shit, you’re gorgeous.”

Erica looks at him, surprised. He looks back at her because he’s unable to look away. The way her blush spreads from her cheeks to the freckles across her nose fascinates him.

He never wants to stop looking at her and he decides that he needs to do something about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on:  
> Tumblr: [IamTellNoOne](http://iam-tellnoone.tumblr.com/)  
> WordPress: [Stephanie Rhesa](http://stephanierhesa.wordpress.com/)  
> Twitter: [@StephanieITA](https://twitter.com/StephanieITA)  
> Facebook: [Stephanie Rhesa](https://www.facebook.com/pages/Stephanie-Rhesa/302270376473191)


End file.
